


Home of the Weird

by Mayhem21



Category: Gravity Falls, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crossover, Deleted Scenes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: They should have realized that the effects of Weirdmageddon would attract attention outside boundaries of Gravity Falls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an idea I’ve had floating around in my head for a few weeks now. Hetalia was my main fandom before finishing Gravity Falls, so it’s not super surprising my brain wanted to do a crossover. And seriously, Weirdmageddon turned Gravity Falls into a bubble of weirdness that didn’t play by the rules of our dimension. Not hard to assume that the personification of the United States of America would notice that.
> 
> Anyways, this is a work in progress. Feedback appreciated!

Mabel is the first one to notice him.

Grunkle Ford and Grunkle Stan had already disappeared back into the Shack, talking hushed, excited tones as they started spinning out ideas for a Stan-o-War II and the voyage of exploration and adventure they’d promised each other decades earlier.

Dipper and Soos are supposedly helping her gather up the last bits of trash and debris from their birthday party but had gotten lost in enraptured discussion of Soos’s new future as Mr. Mystery. Vaguely, Mabel knows that the boys would disappear into the museum soon to start planning what exhibits needed replacing and what new attractions they could build.

As the last of the crowd filtered away, _he_ stayed. Like her, he was picking up all the plastic plates and cups and napkins that had ended up on the ground and kicked around during the wonderful 13th birthday celebration the town had thrown for them. He was moving a bit faster than she was. He’d already filled up a big black trash bag all on his own.

Dropping down to sit on the porch, Mabel stared, trying to decide who and what he was -- and if she needed to scream for Dipper, for her Grunkles, to come back to fight him with her.

He didn’t _look_ strange or weird. Blond hair and tired blue eyes that watched the world from behind half-moon glasses. Young, despite the old-fashioned looking glasses. T-shirt, jeans, baseball cap twisted backwards on his head. A few bandages on his arms and hands, a careful way of moving that suggested bruises of all sorts hiding under his clothes.

He was just like everyone else. Battered but unbroken.

 _He wasn’t from Gravity Falls_.

He’d caught her eye, distantly, during the party. She couldn’t help but notice a pretty face. _(And he was very pretty. As handsome as Sev'ral Timez.)_ He’d fit in perfectly with the inhabitants of Gravity Falls, standing shoulder to shoulder with humans and Manotaurs alike, happy and celebrating and laughing.

No one else had thought him strange. Had thought to ask him where he came from and why he was there.

Quashing a flicker of fear in her belly, Mabel jumped back up to her feet, plastered on her cheeriest expression, and charged forward. She’d get no answers if she didn’t ask any questions.

“Hi, I’m Mabel! Thank you for coming to our birthday party! I can’t believe so many people came just for us! It was amazing! Who are you? How old are you? Are you originally from Gravity Falls? How did you hurt your hands and arms? What are your plans for after the summer?”

The stranger stared for a moment, blinking as so many did at the veritable wall of text that made up Mabel’s introductions. Then, he threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter. Well worn laugh lines suddenly appeared on his face and some of the tension tangled up inside her relaxed. The sound of his laughter was bright and warm. It rolled effortlessly through the clearing, the sound bouncing off the newly repaired Shack and rolled into the surrounding woods. There was a feeling of power and energy in that laughter, enough to make the skin on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end as it rolled through the area, but for some reason it didn’t make her feel the slightest bit afraid.

“Alfred F. Jones.” The stranger was chuckling still even as he spoke. “I’m glad you had the party,” he continued. “You both deserve it.”

Several sets of footsteps suddenly sounded within the house, getting louder as they thundered closer.

Still smiling, Alfred F. Jones set down the trash he’d been holding and stepped back, carefully raising his battered hands into the air, palms facing out. The smile remained on his face even as Grunkle Ford charged out the door, laser pistol gripped tightly in his hands as he leapt in front of Mabel. Then Grunkle Stan was there, one hand grabbing her shoulder and dragging her back, away from the stranger, gold glittering on his fists. Finally, Dipper and Soos tore around the side of the building, eyes wide and clearly spooked.

“Uh, I come in peace?”

 

* * *

Ford wanted to scream. To howl and snarl as he ripped this new threat to his family apart piece by piece. It had been foolish of him to think it was over. That he would be allowed to relax and find peace.

He’d been riding a delirious high for several hours, reveling in how much Stanley had recovered (not completely, not like they’d told the town, but enough to give them all peace), in the happy smiles of Dipper and Mabel as they blew out the candles on their cake and chatted with their friends. The palpable excitement in the air as Stanley dubbed Soos the new Mr. Mystery. And best of all, the eagerness and excitement on his brother’s face when he asked him to join him on the sailing quest they’d talked about since they were children.

The sudden swell of power that had swept over him, over them, had been like shower in the icy waters of Dimension 92”]. Gone too quick for him to judge it properly but lingering just enough to know without any uncertainty that whatever, whoever, it came from was very, very powerful. And very, very close.

Easily computing where the epicenter of that power came from, he turned and dove back outside, comforted slightly by Stanley’s presence at his back.

There was a stranger in front of the house.

Mabel was _standing right next to it._

Ford leapt forward, the butt of his laser pistol biting into his hand as he planted himself between Mabel and the stranger. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stan pull Mabel further away.

Good.

Turning his full attention to the stranger, Ford gave him a quick once-over. Human-looking, young adult, likely male, blond hair, glasses. He’d taken a few short steps backwards, putting some distance between them and now stood still, hands raised and still in surrender. No tension in his body, no bulges that suggested concealed weapons.

A small smile on his face and warm eyes that seemed to whisper _It’s okay_ and _I understand, I’m not judging you for this_.

Almost against his will, Ford could feel his heart rate slowing and the knotted mess of _DangerFearDefendAttackProtectThreat_ start to unravel in his gut.

“Uh, I come in peace?”

 

* * *

One hand still on Mabel’s shoulder, holding her safely behind him, Stan slowly lowered the arm and clenched fist he’d been holding in the air and slipped his brass knuckles back into his pants pocket.

“Ford,” he stated, “relax. I don’t think this guy’s here to pick a fight.”

His brother didn’t even twitch. Nor did the stranger. Stan had the impression that the newcomer would be perfectly happy standing there, hands in the air, for as long as it took for Ford to calm down.

He tried again. “Ford!” Of course he didn’t move. Rolling his eyes, Stan stepped up next to his brother. “Back off, Poindexter,” he growled. Then, making sure his movement was within Ford’s line of sight, he reached out and placed his hand on weapon pointed at the stranger so he could push it down.

Once he’d finally gotten Ford to lower the deadly pistol, Stan jabbed a blunt finger at the stranger. “You, don’t go anywhere.”

The stranger flashed him a wide, beaming smile and a double thumbs-up before hooking thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans.

“Stanley, he’s _dangerous_ ,” Ford hissed, eyes locked onto the stranger. The gun twitched slightly, as though his brother was suppressing the urge to aim it at the newcomer once more.

“So are we,” Stan countered. “But we’re not going to get anywhere with you pointing that thing in his face.” He sighed softly. It figured the Pines family couldn’t have one day, a _single day_ , go by without some kind of drama. “Sixer, this guy doesn’t want to hurt us.”

Ford snorted, clearly disbelieving.

“This is what I do, Ford,” Stan growled, “what I’ve been doing for most of my life. I read people. And what I’m seeing right now is someone who wants to talk, not someone who wants to pick a fight.”

The stranger nodded, still smiling, still cheery and chipper.

“His name’s Alfred!” Mabel scurried around the brothers until she was next to Ford. Unhesitating, she grabbed his free hand with both of her’s. “Alfred F. Jones! What’s the F stand for?” she added, turning to the stranger.

“Franklin,” Alfred the stranger answered. “But it’s been other things. Frank, Freedom, Fu-- uh … all sorts of things.”

“And this is my great uncle Stanford and his brother Stanley.” Tugging on Ford’s hand, Mabel gave him a pointed look. “Say ‘Hi’, Grunkle Ford,” she ordered.

Grudgingly, Ford finally holstered his weapon. A soft collective sigh of relief sounded in the clearing.

Stan stepped up, briefly bumping his brother’s shoulder with his. “What brings you ‘round here?” he asked. “You’re not from Gravity Falls.” He paused for a moment. “Not doing tours today, either.”

“Oh, I know,” Alfred F. Jones replied. He looked past them for a moment, eyes moving across the renovated Mystery Shack behind them. “I’m actually here about the, uh, Weirdmageddon.”

“About what? No idea what you’re talking about,” Stan replied, the lie coming easily to his lips. He didn’t need Mayor Cutebiker’s new “Never Mind All That” act to know talking about the recent apocalypse with outsiders as a bad idea.

Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Jones chewed on his lower lip for a moment, eyes shifting back from the Shack to them. After a long moment of obvious inner conflict, he sighed and stepped forward, extending his hand for a handshake. “Let me start over,” he said, a serious expression crossing his face. “My name is the United States of America.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting this out a little earlier than I originally planned. Enjoy!

_Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Jones chewed on his lower lip for a moment, eyes shifting back from the Shack to them. After a long moment of obvious inner conflict, he sighed and stepped forward, extending his hand for a handshake. “Let me start over,” he said, a serious expression crossed his face. “My name is the United States of America.”_

“Wait, wait, wait, you mean, like the _country_ ? _Our_ country?” Dipper stared wide-eyed at the tall blond man standing in front of Great Uncle Ford. He didn’t look like a . . . geographical region? A geopolitical power? Or did he? Was this what countries looked like? Was- was this a _thing_? A thing that all countries had?

There’d been nothing about living countries in the journals.

Jones- the United States of America- threw a knowing grin his way as Great Uncle Ford hesitantly clasped his hand. “You got it,” he replied, absently giving the scientist’s hand a quick, enthusiastic shake. They both took a small step back once the handshake was complete.

Dipper and Soos drifted closer to the others, eyes watching in fascination as the strange man spread his arms wide. “So!” His hands flew together in a loud clap. “You can call me America, or Alfred if there are others nearby.” America wiggled his eyebrows. “I am personally letting you dudes in on one of the biggest secrets in the world: me! And my kind, I guess you can say.”

“Dude, that’s so cool!” Soos exclaimed.

“Totally is! And can I just say that it’s because of rad dudes like you that I’m the most awesome and amazing country in the world? Because it’s true.” America beamed, looking both proud of them and of himself. “The others are all jerks or crazy or have, like, zero spine. Even Canada has moments where he’s totally lame!”

“Others- other countries, you mean?” Ford’s eyes were big as he frantically patted at his trenchcoat, digging for a journal, a scrap of paper, _something_ to write on. And with. “How are you born? Is it tied to the formal ratification of a government or does it have more to do with the cultural-”

“Right, this is going to be one of those conversations, isn’t it?” Sighing, Stan turned and took hold of Ford’s arm, forcibly dragging his twin back towards the Shack. “Come on in,” he called over his shoulder. “If this is happening, it’ll be with my butt in my chair.”

Several minutes later, the small group has assembled in the restored living room. Stan had thrown himself into his battered yellow armchair after tossing his jacket and bolo tie onto the coat rack at the backdoor. Soos leaned against the chair at his side, still wearing Stan’s old ornate red fez. Dipper and Mabel sat on the floor in front of the armchair while Ford perched on the dinosaur skull side table, eyes glowing with palpable excitement as he waited with a pad of paper and pen at the ready. Facing them, standing in front of the TV, was the man calling himself America.

“Awesome,” the blue eyed man breathed as he looked back at the Pines (and Soos). He rocked forward and back in his feet, bouncing with barely contained energy. “Okay, rundown. Word of warning, you’re gonna be disappointed. Now, me, and others like me, are living personifications of countries. Rule of thumb is one per country, although there are outliers here and there. And in the US, at least, there’s a personification for each state. All in all, though, we have no idea why we exist or where we come from or if there’s something specific we’re supposed to be doing. We just kinda appear and that’s all any of us have been able to figure out.”

“Fascinating,” Ford muttered, pen flying over paper. “There are no records or lore concerning your origins?”

Shrugging, America replied, “Not that anyone’s ever told me. I mean,” he paused for a moment, hands on his hips and head tilted to the side. “Well, I’m on the young side for countries. Been independent for less than three hundred years and I only really remember a century or two before then. England and France are, like, a thousand years old. China’s at least four thousand. Doesn’t talk about the past much, though.”

“Four thousand years old?” Ford’s pen stopped mid-stroke and started pooling black ink as he stared at America with stunned eyes.

“Yeah, he’s a total geezer. Doesn’t look ancient at a glance, though.” America bit the inside of his cheek as he took in the identical wide-eyed looks being cast his way. “We don’t age like humans. Heck, I was pint-sized for over a century and didn’t start growing until the colonies really started booming.”

“Incredible,” Ford muttered, returning to his notes. “I never encountered beings whose aging processing was tied to external forces before.”

America nodded enthusiastically. “It’s actually been driving the older nations nuts lately. Starting with me, all the younger countries like Australia and Germany have grown, by their standards, insanely fast. Only about a century from toddler to young adult. They’re used to it taking centuries.”

“Anyways,” America continued. “My “official” job,” here he used air quotes, “is working with the government and the Prez or PM in all the fancy running a government stuff. It gets weird during civil wars and revolutions but that's basically what we all do. We’re handy to have around because we literally _are_ the country. The people, the land, the cities.” Here his eyes grew slightly distant. “We know every person, every group, and current running through the country. We _are_ those people, those groups- even when they completely disagree.”

“Yeesh, that sounds noisy,” Stan muttered. He’d slouched back in his chair and had his arms folded behind his head, feigning indifference. “So what brings you to Gravity Falls? Don’t you have some fancy control room you should be sitting in or a spy op to run somewhere?”

“You said you were here because of Weirdmageddon,” Dipper added, forehead wrinkling as he thought back to the conversation outside. “Did- did the government notice? Do other people know?” More specifically, he thought to himself, did their _parents_ know?

America didn’t respond right away. His cheerful expression turned somber and the constant fidgeting stopped. “They know _something_ happened. Not what or where specifically it occurred. There’s not . . . I dunno, readings or reports or anything. But when a nation’s living personification and one of the states are found having _seizures_ , alarm bells go off.”

Abandoning his notebook, Ford suddenly rose and stepped forward. “May I?” he asked softly, gesturing to America’s hands.

“Sure.” Offering his hands to the scientist, he started up again as Ford began to unwind the bandages. “Did a lot of damage to myself before anyone showed up. Normally, those would be all healed by now but my, uh, healing factor’s been focusing on the neurological damage.”

Ford hissed in quiet sympathy as the bandages came free. America hands and arms were a wreck. Several fingernails were missing and jagged cuts and tears crisscrossed his bruised flesh. Carefully, Ford rotated America’s arms, eyes noticing what looked like slowly healing burns wrapped around his wrists. Ones that were quite similar to the marks Ford was hiding under his sweater.

“Torso’s pretty beat up, too.” America couldn’t quite bring himself to meet any of their eyes. “Although that’s mostly an echo effect from the event. These are primarily from accidentally tearing up an old, _old_ wood floor while my brain misfired and sent my limbs thrashing.”

Mabel suddenly appeared at Ford’s shoulder. “I got the first aid kit,” she whispered, distress crossing her face at the sight of America’s injuries. Her hands tightened on the handle of what looked like a miniature steamer trunk.

“Needed to change the bandages anyways,” America murmured. “These are the ones I snuck out of the hospital with.” He grinned again but this time, they could see the hint of strain beneath it, a weight he’d been carrying for days and days.

Mabel took a deep breath and jutted out her chin. “Sit!” she ordered, pointing determinedly at the floor. While Ford helped the battered . . . nation? onto the floor, Mabel set down the case and popped open the metal latches. The top of the case hinged open with a soft _creak_ , revealing a very thorough set of medical supplies.

Working together, Mabel and Ford set to work cleaning and rebandaging America’s battered limbs. “Can you tell me more about the echo effect?” Ford asked as he applied several sparkly plasters to some of the smaller wounds.

“Mm, well, I’m a nation in human form,” America started, perfectly relaxed as the twins worked. “Something goes down somewhere in my borders, I feel it, natural and artificial. Forest fires can cause hot flashes, military assaults and bombings cause a lot of damage. You should have seen England during the Blitzkrieg. He looked like he’d just barely survived some awful Lightning Brigade charge. ”

“And Weirdmageddon?”

America’s hands suddenly clenched, digging painfully into Ford’s flesh and causing the scientist to grunt at the sudden pain. The roll of bandages Mabel had just passed him fell to the floor. The nation’s body tightened as he hunched in on himself. After several moments, he relaxed, forcing his grip to loosen.

“Sorry. Thinking about that too much sort of makes my brain- stutter.”

“I can imagine it’s . . . disorienting . . . to have an alien dimension that ignores Euclidean space forcibly impose itself on you,” Ford responded. He took a moment to check his own arms, his hands. Fortunately America’s sudden iron grip _(as tight as Bill’s chains)_ , hadn’t caused any significant damage. He still had full motion in his joints and there was no loss of sensation in any of his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and picked the bandages up off the floor.

“That’s actually why I came,” America admitted as Ford returned to his work. “Normally, I just sort of mentally lean in to get information but with this…” his voice trailed off.

“Seizure.”

“Boom.” America nodding grimly. “I’m trying to avoid that happening again. It’s really not fun. It’s, like, the opposite of fun”

“I suppose it’s only right you of all people learn the truth,” Ford murmured with a soft sigh. Taping down the last bandage, he cast a quick look over America’s hands and arms. “At least that’s done. The rest, well, that will take some time.”

“And I’ve already taken too much today,” America responded. He gave Ford’s work a quick once-over then grinned. “Thanks for this,” he added, wiggling his fingers at the scientist.

The words and the gesture- Ford felt it again, stronger than before. It had been so faint earlier outside. He had barely noticed it. A sense of belonging, of boundless, conditionless love. He’d traveled the multiverse for thirty years and not once had he ever encountered someone, some _thing_ , like the man sitting before him right now. Not there, and not even back home in Dimension 46’/.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Dipper’s voice, speaking up suddenly from behind him, was startling. Turning, Ford found that his nephew had taken up his pad and continued taking notes on the strange being before them.

“Hey, I heard that you two are headed back home tomorrow,” America replied. “Like your Great Uncle said, the, ah, _events_ of the last week will take a lot of time to go over. I don’t want to take up any more today than I have to. I’ve got a room at the Twin Bed Motel on the edge of town,” he continued, looking first at Ford then at Stan. “If you decide you’re still okay telling me about it, I’ll be around.” Pushing himself back up onto his feet, America twisted his back slightly as straightened up, carefully stretching sore muscles.

“I guess we’ll call you in a day or two, then,” Ford reluctantly agreed, pushing himself up after America with a soft groan as his own muscles twinged.

As America started for the door, Dipper thrust the pad of paper and pen at Ford and dashed after the living personification, Mabel close on his heels. “We’ll show him out,” Dipper called out over his shoulder.

“Be right back!” Mabel agreed. “So don’t you guys go anywhere!”

Looking amused, America allowed the younger twins to lead him out the door and pull it closed behind them. Before he could step off the porch, however, Dipper grabbed the hem of his shirt.

“So, just to clarify, being, uh, the United States of America means you’re, like, Big Government, right? Capital B, capital G?” he asked, a hint of nerves and excitement in his voice.

“Well, I suppose you could look at it that way,” America agreed. Cocking his head to one side, he look from one twin to the other, waiting to see which of them would spill the beans first. It was clear they were plotting something.

“So, you’ll probably hear all about it later but part of the leadup to the event was Grunkle Stan pretending to be Great Uncle Ford for thirty years.”

“After faking his own death,” Mabel added.

“So I was just wondering if, maybe…”

“You could undo all that? And make it so Grunkle Stan isn’t banned from all those states anymore?”

America stared at them in surprise. Then, blinking rapidly, he gave his head a quick shake and mentally reviewed what they had just ask of him.

“I was going to write a letter to President Trembley but I have a feeling your way might be faster.” Mabel looked quite pleased with herself.

“Wait, you two know about Trembley? How- what-”

“Long story. Um, another one,” Dipper winced.

“He made me a Congressman!” Mabel exclaimed.

“And I guess if you want to hear all about it you’ll just have to bring Grunkle Stan back from dead. You know, officially.”

America burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, he fell against the door and couldn’t straighten back up.

Grunkle Stan’s voice suddenly floated from inside. “Kids, everything alright?”

“They’re just blackmailing me with one of my deepest, darkest secrets,” America called back, still laughing.

 “Good work, niblings!”

“Kids, I don’t think-” “Shut it, Ford!”

 Shaking his head, America grinned at the younger Pines. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. “But now I really should go.”

“Okay, good bye, Mr. United States!” Waving, Mabel and Dipper watched as America strolled through dirt lot, heading towards the street.

“He’s nice,” Mabel commented.

“Yup.” Dipper elbowed his sister. “So, more scrapbook time with Grunkle Stan?”

“Definitely.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those stories that I probably should write all out and do a proper edit but meh. I’m just enjoying getting it all down.

It was a much quieter Shack when America drove up a few days later. Naturally, the older Pines hadn’t called the Twin Bed Motel the same day Mabel and Dipper left Gravity Falls. And he wouldn’t have come over, not when he knew the brothers would need time to adjust to a much emptier house.

The outside world continued on, unconcerned and unaware of how close  _ everything _ had come to ending. Tourists continued to appear by the busload (complaining of a freak rockslide that had blocked off the town for a few days) and the weird and strange events that were a part of daily life in Gravity Falls continued on as well.

America had kept busy during the short break. He’d gotten some close friends at one of his alphabet soup agencies to dig up background information on the Pines family  _ (there was a third brother, how interesting)  _ and placed a few quick phone calls  _ (Hey, Bossman, can I bend your ear for a moment?) _ . Most importantly, he continued to successfully elude Virginia  _ (no way his oldest state wasn’t on a warpath by this point) _ . He did send out a reassuring email promising her and the other states that he hadn’t fallen off the face of the Earth.

He’d been relieved, though, when the battered, vaguely yellow phone in his small motel room finally rang. The only beings on the planet who knew that number were, theoretically, the Stans over at the Mystery Shack. It had occurred to him over the past few days that either Stanley or Stanford could have talked the other out of meeting with him again. He hadn’t, after all, offered any substantive proof of his identity. No, that entire introductory conversation had run entirely on emotion and gut feelings.

Happily, though, he was back at the Shack, hoping for answers and bearing a few meager gifts he hoped would at least let him start repaying the Pines family for all they had done.

Leaving his bugout car next to Stan’s gorgeous red vintage El Diablo, America followed the short trail leading to the Shack. The worn grass crunched slightly underfoot, the soft sound filling the quiet area that surrounded the battered wooden building.

Stepping up to the backdoor, the single step creaked underfoot, as did the planks that made up the porch. It was literally impossible for him to approach the building without making some sort of noise, America realized. A bemused smile floated across his face. He wasn’t sure if this was an intentional security measure or not.

Inside the building, America could just make out the sound of movement. His approach had not gone unnoticed. With an internal shrug, he reached out and rapped on the door.

The door flung open immediately to reveal Stanford Pines standing on the other side, still clad in the red turtleneck sweater from the other day. “Come in, come in,” the scientist welcomed, shifting to the side and gesturing for the nation to enter.

“Thanks.” Stepping into the house, America shoved his hands into his pocket and made his way to the living room where two of the dining chairs had been moved away from the table to form a vague triangle with Stan’s armchair.

The younger twin looked perfectly calm and relaxed, wearing plain shorts and a hawaiian shirt over a simple undershirt. He watched America with a carefully bland expression from his chair but the nation could sense the buzz of rapid fire thoughts spinning out the different directions this meeting could go. There was no reason to even try to bluff the professional conman.

“I appreciate that you were able to come by,” Ford began as he followed America in the living room. He gestured towards one of the chairs. “I was going through some of my old notes from college and realized that I actually  _ had _ heard of your kind before, albeit in a very, very roundabout fashion.” Seeing the nation’s curious look, he continued, sitting himself down in the remaining chair. “I did some work with for Ronald Reagan’s presidential campaign while at Backupsmore. Looking back, I realized that some of the more, ah, colorful conversations I overheard from my contacts in the campaign were likely oblique references to either you or, I presume, the state of California.”

“Interesting.” America pursed his lips, mind flashing back to the previous president as he tossed his worn bomber jacket onto the back of the chair and sat down. “You and me are gunna run that down later,” he promised after a few moments. “But for now, I’d really rather talk about Weir- ... the thing that makes me feel like my brain is trying to crawl out of my ears and commit suicide.”

Ford and Stan exchanged glances. America had lost the happy and chipper persona that seemed to fit him like a glove. The moment he’d brought up Weirdmageddon, he’d rounded his shoulders, hands reaching around to hug his elbows while stress and strain crossed his face. He may not have been physically present during Bill’s assault on their dimension but clearly it had deeply affected him.

“A great deal led up to the day I met Bill Cipher,” Ford began. With a soft sigh, he continued, “It would not be inaccurate to say that our entire lives led us to this point.” Slowly, Ford began to recount the story of his and Stan’s childhood in Glass Shard Beach and everything that had come after. Stan jumped in at moments, adding his own impressions and thoughts but the story wasn’t the same as when they’d told it to the younger Pines twins.

With America, Ford and Stan were willing to go into far more detail about the darker moments of their lives. Unfortunately, the holes in Stan’s memory of the years and decades he’d been alone prevented him from describing all but a few events during that time.

The full retelling took well over an hour. Throughout, America sat quietly, never showing any sign of judgement or distaste when Stan vaguely recalled getting tangled up with drug smugglers in Columbia or Ford’s brief mention of taking part in a violent uprising on one of the many worlds in the multiverse.

As the story meandered up to and through the recent summer, Stan took over the narrative, his eyes taking on a new light as he delved into the Pines family’s summer adventures. These memories, at least, were rock solid in his mind.

But then, Bill returned to the story.

Stan successfully activated the portal and brought Ford back to their dimension.

The brothers fought and fought and then it all went horribly wrong.

The story of Weirdmageddon itself was painful for everyone present. The ache at the world shattering so completely, the pain of family forcibly separated, and the terror of trying to fight back and failing returned just as strongly as when it had happened barely a week earlier.

Stan and Ford exchanged guilty looks as they remembered their failures during Weirdmageddon. It was only because of Dipper and Mabel that they’d found a way to finally defeat the dream demon - a solution that had nearly destroyed their entire family.

“It almost seems like a miracle,” Ford admitted as the story drew to a close, “that Stan was able to regain his memory. If Mabel had listened to me, if she hadn’t been determined to find a way…” his voice trailed off.

Silence fell over the room.

“But not everything came back.” America gave Stan a thoughtful look, his voice very matter-of-fact as the nation studied the older looking man. “There are significant gaps in your memory still, years that are missing and events that you have no context for.”

Stan flinched slightly as piercing blue eyes peered at him. He could remember all sorts of eyes staring back at him: the wide-eyed wonder of children watching his slight-of-hand tricks; accusatory glares of co-conspirators as a deal started to go wrong; the bored, dull-eyed stare of teenagers. Sometimes those eyes were all he remembered. But he’d never, ever seen a gaze like this one. America’s eyes almost seemed to glow as they pierced him all the way to his core.

Beside him, Ford inhaled softly and a look of worry flickered over his face. He’d known since before the kids left that Stan wasn’t quite as recovered as they’d told the townsfolk. Heck, he and Stan had discussed exactly what to tell the others when it finally came time. But he hadn’t known… if America was correct, then the holes in Stan’s memory were far more extensive than he realized. And he didn’t know if he could fix them.

“They’ll either come back or they won’t,” Stan finally muttered. He crossed his arms, pressing them against his chest as his discomfort with America’s gaze grew. “Not like I’m missing anything important.”

“Stan, that’s not-”

“And if you could get them back?”

Startled, the brothers turned to stare at America, whose blue eyes refused to flinch away at the sudden attention.

“Everything up here’s still a little…” He didn’t say ‘broken, shaken,  _ the world-my body-my land- twisted and wrong and weird _ your story made me  _ remember-feel-be-that-again’ _ . He’d maintained his sanity this time, clinging to it with the desperate grasp of a man determined not to fall again. He’d only regained his mind after Weirdmageddon because of the Pines family and their determination and selflessness. He wasn’t going to let himself tumble off that cliff again. Taking a deep breath, America pushed on. “Well, I’m still a little messed up. But once I’ve had some time, I think I might be able to help you with your memory. If you want.”

“Help me,” Stan repeated in a breathless voice. Surely he’d heard him wrong. “How could you possibly help me with my memories?” Confusion was thick in his voice as he continued to stare.

Tilting his head to the side, America tapped his temple with a long finger. “I’m the United States of America. I’m the land, the creatures, the people. It’s all here, underneath the surface.” Dropping his hand back to his lap, he shrugged, broad shoulders jerking up and down. “This situation hasn’t come up before but I think I can do it. Give you your memories back, I mean.” He shrugged again, hands twitching.

Silence filled the Shack once more. Stanford’s eyes were wide as he sat ramrod straight on his chair. A chance. There was a chance that the lingering damage he’d inflicted on Stanley could be repaired. Turning his head, he cast a hopeful look at his brother.

Stanley did not look as enthused with America’s suggestion. His hands were tense and digging into the plush arms of his chair and his face was noticeably pale. “I don’t-” He swallowed hard. “The things I’m still missing aren’t worth bringing back,” he finally continued. “I did a lot of wrong in my life. It’d be better for everyone if that stays buried.”

America stood and took the few steps needed to move from his chair to Stan, kneeling once he’d reached the worn yellow seat. “Stan, I’ve been around longer than my own government. Longer than I’ve been a nation. I’ve fought in wars and in dark alleys and done things I’m not proud of to survive and to protect my people.” He reached out and let his fingers rest lightly on Stan’s bony knees. “I don’t pick and choose who I represent. Who belongs to me. I’m  _ everyone _ . The good, the bad and the very, very bad. And you, Stan, you are not one of the bad or one of the very, very bad.”

He smiled, warm and gentle, “A little tarnished, maybe, but in a way that adds character and makes something unique. I’m not unaware of the many different paths you’ve walked or the things you’ve done. I can’t  _ not _ know. Your life, your brother’s, the people of this town- it’s all a part of me, good and bad. Your experiences, all of my citizens lives, they help define who I am and what I’m like. I like to think that I’m a decent guy who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to protect the people I love. And I could only be that way because of people like you.”

Feeling like a hand was squeezing his heart, Stan squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to block out the warm sincerity in America’s eyes. He was wrong, he  _ had _ to be. And yet … He knew the young looking man at his feet believed every word he’d said. He  _ was _ the United States of America. Stan  _ knew _ he was, could feel it in his bones that America was everything he’d claimed and more. And to be America, to be that  _ kind  _ of being meant …

“Anyways,” America suddenly continued, pushing himself to his feet. “You don’t have to decide right away. Like I said, I’ll need a little time to pull myself back together. Which means … presents!” Clapping his hands together, America couldn’t help but bounce from one foot to the other, practically dancing in excitement. “I admit, they’re fairly meager offerings compared to what you guys did for me. It’s gunna be awhile before I can properly thank you for not letting that demon rip me apart and twist me into some kind of hellish, mindless, shattered lump of useless flesh and earth but I gotta start somewhere.”

Grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, America dug into one of the inner pockets and pulled out a small bundle white envelopes. He flipped through them, separating the stack into several smaller groups. Two of the envelopes he thrust at Ford and another two at Stan.

“This- this is from the  _ White House _ ,” Stan stuttered as he stared at the return address on one of his envelopes.

“And the Oregon Department of Motor Vehicles?” Ford added, sounding equally confused.

“Open open open!” America chanted in rapidfire. He threw himself back into his chair, clutching his jacket and the remaining envelopes to his chest. “Also, you have to call Dipper and Mabel and tell them about what’s inside ‘cause this is part of what they were blackmailing me about. And I really, really need to know how the  _ hell _ they found out about Trembley. Even my  _ brother _ doesn’t know about Trembley.”

With hesitant fingers, Stan ripped open the flap of the letter from the White House. The piece of paper inside, he discovered, felt thick and expensive under his fingers and as he unfolded the page, he could feel some kind of thick embossed seal.

“This- this can’t be real,” he whispered as he stared at the printed words.

 

_ EXECUTIVE GRANT OF CLEMENCY _

_   
_ _ Barack H. Obama _

_ President of the United States of America _

_ To all to whom these presents shall come, greeting: _

_ Be it known, that this day the president has granted unto _ __   
  


**_STANLEY DELILAH PINES_ ** __   
  


_ A FULL AND UNCONDITIONAL PARDON _

_ For any and all criminal and unlawful acts, convictions, and indictments he may have committed or received. _

_ The President has designated, directed and empowered The United States of America, in the form known also as Alfred F. Jones, as his representative to sign this act of executive clemency. _

_   
_ _ In accordance with these instructions and authority, I have signed my name and caused the seal of the Department of Justice to be affixed hereto and affirm that this action is the act of the President being performed at his direction. _

_ Done in the City of Gravity Falls, Oregon, on September 3, 2012. _

_ BY DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT  
_

_ ALFRED F. JONES _

_ THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _

 

“Why would the President want to pardon  _ me? _ ” Stan demanded, still staring stunned and aghast at the letter. “How does he even  _ know _ about me?”

“I call him,” America replied cheerfully. “He is my boss, after all. And normally pardons take, like,  _ forever _ to get done but I get to cut through all the red tape. And I don’t ask for this kind of thing a lot, so I usually get my way.”

While America explained, Ford ripped open his own presidential letter and discovered a matching pardon bearing his own name inside.

America leaned over and poked his leg. “That’ll cover anything Stan may or may not have done while he was using your name as well as your own shenanigans.” He looked very pleased with himself. “I also got the boss to agree to keep this on the down-low so your names don’t start floating place you may not want them to. I do wanna warn you, though, this only applies to the stuff you’ve already done. It’s not a Get Out of Jail Free card or something.”

“Of course.” Ford found it hard to tear his eyes away from the letter (Stan was still sitting in stunned silence) but he forced himself to set it down in his lap and tear open the second envelope. After studying the contents for several long moments, he pulled the small plastic card off the paper it was stuck to and held it up so America could see it. “How,” he demanded.

“Photoshop, mostly,” America answered. “Uh, photo editing, I mean,” he corrected when Ford gave him a blank look. “Stan had a relatively up-to-date photo on file with the Oregon DMV already so a buddy helped me make some edits so it’d match you. The real trick was getting the records for you both straightened out in the database and getting your licenses mailed out overnight.”

“What trick?” Stan interjected, his attention finally breaking away from the pardon letter clutching in his hands.

“You’re both alive again in government records,” America explained. “Got things mostly straightened out at the federal level, too, although the IRS is dragging it’s feet. I’m not going to let them hit you with back taxes or anything. Or identity theft. There were extenuating circumstances, after all.”

“I’m what now?” Confused, Stan reluctantly put down the Presidential letter  _ (he still couldn’t believe it!) _ and opened the letter from the DMV. Inside, he found a new driver's license with the name Stanley Pines on it. “Right, any doubts I may have had about you are now officially gone,” he announced. “It’d take the actual United States of America to get the DMV to move fast.”

“Any bureaucracy,” Ford agreed. “Even briefly being king of the Finger Dimension required working extensively with a slow and inefficient bureaucracy.” He fingered his new license, looking down at the photo America had made to help correct the issue of identity. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For- for all of this.”

“Don’t worry about it. It really doesn’t feel like enough,” America replied. “What Bill did here … I don’t even have the words to describe what it did to me,” he continued in a softer voice. “But it’s over and even better than before because he’s gone. You saved Gravity Falls, this planet, this  _ dimension _ , and the entire multiverse. All the pain and heartache - it was worth it for that.”

“You’re not just saying that, are you,” Stan concluded once America had finished speaking. When the nation nodded, he sighed and carefully set down the precious pardon and ID on the skull next to his chair. “Alright, then.” He spread his hands and shook his head slightly in bemusement. “Hit me with your best shot.”


	4. Chapter 4

" _You're not just saying that, are you," Stan concluded once America had finished speaking. When the nation nodded, he sighed and carefully set down the precious pardon and ID on the skull next to his chair. "Alright, then." He spread his hands and shook his head slightly in bemusement. "Hit me with your best shot."_

They'd all taken a break. Stretched their legs. Used the bathroom. Took a few minutes staring into the bathroom mirror clutching the sink with white-knuckled fingers and trying to not to hyperventilate. Or perhaps that was just Stan.

America didn't want to hurt him or use him, Stan reminded himself. He knew all the tricks of the trade and the strange blond man waiting in the living room wasn't lying or trying to hide things. He'd answered questions, told them what he wanted to do, and even did the leg work getting their lives straightened with the government. Stanley Pines had been resurrected from the dead and both Stanley and Stanford had been pardoned for any and all crimes committed over their lives. They had a blank slate and more freedom than they'd ever had before.

Most importantly, for the first time in Stan's life, there were no strings attached. Everything they'd been offered was something they could refuse with zero repercussions.

If anything, Stan mused as he stared into the cracked bathroom mirror, America had made it clear that he felt _he_ owed _them_.

Part of him had been broken, twisted into some kind of Lovecraftian nightmare, and nearly shattered.

The way America looked at him and Ford, had looked at the kids after their birthday party-

Those stunning blue eyes had been worshipful, tearfully grateful, and filled with awe.

He's never seen eyes like that before. And probably never would again.

Taking one final deep breath, Stan squared his shoulders and straightened his back. Time to face the music.

* * *

 "You sure you know what you're doing?" Nervousness was obvious in Stan's voice as he gingerly settled down into his armchair.

With a soft hum, America nudged his worn dining chair back a few paces. "Specifically? No," he replied as he shifted back towards Stan. "But that's actually a good thing. There are other nations who are what you'd imagine if I said sorcerer or magician. They have these massive, dusty tomes and spend hours arguing what's the best way to, I shit you not, light a candle. Each of them insisting that their way is best."

"How would you light a candle?" Ford inquired with a raised brow. He'd taken up a perch on the T-Rex skull, wanting to be close to Stan while America was in his mind. Tucking his chin into his hand, he stared back at the nation, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"I'd use a lighter. Or a match."

Stan let out a sudden guffaw. "Probably faster than a bunch of chanting and hand waving," he chuckled.

"Especially when there's someone standing all up in your business going," his voice suddenly shifted pitch, " _You're doing it wrong, that's terrible. You're not going to accomplish a thing that way_." America's easy smile reappeared. "I swear, England, Norway, and Romania spend more time arguing over whose family's magic is better than actually doing magic. Meanwhile, as the most diverse country in the _world_ , it's pretty clear to me that there's no way any one kind of magic is objectively better than another."

"You know multiple forms of magic, than?" Ford's fingers started to twitch with the nearly irresistible urge to start recording America's words.

America raised a hand, seesawing it back and forth. "I haven't sat down and studied but I can … well, follow along." Leaning back, he absently bounced his head off the high wooden chair back. "Some kinds of magic are better for some things than others. And some kinds work together better than others. I sort of … " his hand reached out again, twisting and turning as he mimed reaching out to grasp something. "When I need to do something, I can feel what will work and what won't. How to use part of, say, a Wiccan blessing with a Japanese binding spell. To meld all the different kinds of magic ever practiced on my shores to get what I want. It's hard to describe.

"Between just- not having the right words to talk about it and England's magic snobbery, I don't really talk about it with others," America concluded. With a small shrug, he added, "That's also basically how _this_ is going to work. I can feel up _here_ ," he said, reaching up to tap the side of his head, "how to do this. But I don't quite have all the words to describe what's going to happen."

"Of course you don't," muttered Stan. He crossed his arms over his chest, discomfort still churning slightly in his gut. Glancing at Ford, Stan jerked his head at the nation standing in front of them. "What do you think, Poindexter?"

Pursing his lips, Ford took a moment to consider. "Well, I must confess, I've never heard of someone approaching magic or, ah, related fields, in such a fashion but it does makes sense when viewed through the lens of existing national personifications. England and- Norway, I believe you said?" America nodded. "Those are fairly homogeneous cultures, I believe, so it makes sense that their particular practice of magic would be distinct. And that would contrast with the United States which has always held itself up as a melting pot of cultures and views. So, ultimately, I believe America is correct in his summation that he can return your missing memories," he concluded.

"You can't get much better than the Stanford Pines seal of approval," Stan noted. "So, what do we do?"

"Well, first-" Picking up one last envelope, America handed it over to Ford. "This might take awhile. This is just, uh, a proposal. Take a look and let me know what you think." Then, he turned and dropped to the floor in front of Stan. He wriggled backwards until he was tucked up against the yellow chair and leaned a shoulder against the older looking man's leg. "This okay?" he asked, tilting back to look up at Stan.

Looking quizzical, Stan shrugged. "Sure, kid."

"Alright, just sit back and relax." Closing his eyes and letting his head fall back comfortably against the edge of the seat cushion, America let his hand fall onto Stan's foot and murmured softly under his breath, chanting an unknown incantation.

A burning, blue-white light suddenly burst from America's eyes and a matching beam flared above Stan's head, shooting up to the ceiling. The entire room was ablaze as a wave of heat rolled through the small space, followed by the smell of ozone as sparks of electricity crackled and popped. The beam of light swelled and erupted and a sourceless gust of wind ripped through the air. The thin TV antennae quivered and Ford clutched at the thick envelope in his hands as the sudden gale fought to rip it away. Then, with a pure white light shining from their eyes, America and Stan went limp, disappearing into the mindscape.

* * *

 "Sweet Moses, I hate that." Groaning, Stan levered himself upright. The gray, dusty ground felt gritty beneath his fingers and the miasma in the air hovered with foreboding menace.

"You alright?"

Blinking, Stan stared as America emerged from the misty darkness. His bright yellow hair and cheery blue eyes gleamed with a strange light, almost as though he'd become luminous in the strange realm of the mindscape.

Unconcerned by their dour surroundings, America hurried over to Stan and reached out a friendly hand, helpfully pulling Stan up onto his feet with a single jerk. A jerk powerful enough that Stan actually left the ground for several long, terrifying moments.

"Are ya trying to give me a heart attack?" Now back on the ground, Stan pressed his hand to his chest. "Give a guy some warning next time."

"Sorry," America apologized in a sheepish voice. "So," he continued, slowly turning in a circle to take in their surroundings. "This is your mindscape."

"Yeah, and it's even worse than I remember." Stan couldn't suppress the grimace that crossed his face. "Ford helped me figure out how to hide this when Bill entered my mind. I guess I was kinda hoping it'd stay that way. Instead of going back to … this."

The mindscape looked much like the one he'd explored now and then over the last thirty years. The first journal, as well as some scattered notes he'd found in the back of drawers and shoved under rugs, had detailed the basics of the mindscape, how to enter it, and so on. And while Stan had remained focused on the portal, the few times a year he was struck down with the flu or some other illness proved to be the perfect time to poke around the strange realm that was his own mind.

He'd never enjoyed it. Never found the kind of peace and clarity many of the notes had eluded to. Ford described his mindscape as vast outer space-like realm filled with all sorts of random objects: mementos of their childhood, the weird and strange creatures and objects he studied, as well as other more abstract concepts.

Unfortunately for Stan, his own mindscape proved to be a hellish reflection of the worst parts of himself. The landscape and everything in it that weren't memories were bleak, dark greys and blacks. The land was dead, crumbling, and littered with broken versions of things like the old beach side swing set and the Stanmobile. Worst of all was the shattered, twisted facsimile of Ford's home. The structure was decrepit, falling apart, and slowly collapsing over a frighteningly high cliff. And each year, as the structure transformed into the Mystery Shack, it grew worse, larger, and more battered.

And now, the dilapidated structure and surroundings were worse than ever. Chunks of the building and the landscape, the swings, the Stanmobile- they were _gone_. And judging by the way things were starting to tilt, everything was on the verge of collapse.

 _Just like me_. Bitterness clogged his throat.

"This isn't the worst I've seen," America finally pronounced. "Not by a longshot. And it'll look a lot better once we get all your missing memories put back!"

"Hate to break it to ya, but this was all already broken before Bill." Crossing his arms, Stan stared unhappily at the expression of his own inner demons standing all around them.

"You've lived a hard life, Stan," America countered. He folded his own arms, mimicking Stan's stance. "I'd be more worried if your mind _didn't_ reflect that. This?" he waved a hand in the air, gesturing to the broken landscape, "is far, _far_ from the worst mind I've ever encountered. This country is made up of wonderful, brilliant people. And also horrible sociopaths. Every extreme, good and bad. Sinners and saints. You're not the worst person to walk my lands. You're not in the top ten, the top five hundred, or the top _thousand_. There is a long, long list of serial killers, murders, thieves, and monsters ahead of you.

"You were unfairly kicked out of your own home before you were ready for independence but still managed to survive. You stole, lied, and cheated so you could survive just one more day. And deep down, you hated it. You hated being pushed to do those things. You hated that people suffered for it." Stepping forward, America placed his hands on Stan's shoulders. "You never wanted to hurt people, not if they hadn't done something to deserve it. You're a good man, Stanley Pines, and I can see it even if you don't."

It must have been a side effect of being in the mindscape. As America spoke, Stan could just make out flickering images reflecting in the nation's blue eyes. For a brief moment, he saw Chicago, long ago, and a man in a bowler hat with a thick, bushy mustache. The man smiled, but Stan saw too many teeth and he could _feel_ the evil pouring off him. Then the image blurred and he was in California staring at a wild-eyed man with crazed black hair and a beard and goatee. Again the image shifted and two police officers (no, not police, just dressed like police) were strolling up to a museum in Boston. Over and over, images flew across America's eyes, giving Stan a small glimpse at men and women, _Americans_ , who had done truly terrible things. To themselves. To others. And then America blinked and the images faded.

"Alright, alright, I get it." Stan brushed America's hands away, mentally shaking away the memory of the many horrors America lived with. The horrors he'd only gotten the barest glimpse of. "I'm small fry compared to others. So, how do we do this?"

Laughing, America held out a hand, palm up. "I'll show you."


	5. Chapter 5

With Stan's hand tucked securely in his, America led him over to the battered swing sitting off to the side. It was hard to focus, to keep his mind fixed squarely on the task at hand. The mindscape amplified the natural connection between Nation and citizen to a ridiculous degree, making it all but impossible to block out the heady swirl of thoughts, feelings, impressions, perceptions, and more that made up the underlying structure of the black-and-white world.

Stan and anyone else who ventured into his mind would see only the hazy landscape, the scattered structures and the teetering, twisted monolith that was the Mystery Shack. And America saw that too. But there was more. While the humans saw the visual form that made up this mindscape, America could see what he thought of as the substructure: the foundation, the framing and support beams, the wires and pipes that lurked behind the walls of this metaphorical "house". Construction, America had always thought, paralleled the mind quite well.

As the pair reached the broken swings, America nodded in quiet satisfaction as he felt Stan slip his hand free. Even broken, the playset held a great deal of meaning to Stan and Ford. But not so much importance that correcting the damage here would result is a cascade of information that Stan's mind simply didn't have the structure in place yet to understand. Which made it an excellent place to get started.

"Everything around us has layers and layers of meaning," America began, eyes slowly tracing the up one side of the battered wooden frame and up to the thin metal bar at the top. "We're not worried about the symbolism and stuff. That," he glanced over at Stan with a small grin, "is waaay outside my paygrade. But that doesn't mean we can't use that metaphysical stuff to our advantage. So, looking at this, what's wrong with it? And I don't mean," he quickly added, "anything about the cracks in the support struts or the broken swing. What's wrong with it _now_ compared to before the memory gun?"

Stan stood quietly for a moment, frowning as he studied the former beach-side playset. "Well," he finally said, "there are parts missing. Part of that strut," he pointed first to the gap in one of the wooden beams then to the swings themselves, "and the ropes that should be holding the seats." Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Pretty sure those should have fallen. Them floating in the air like that is … freaky."

"That's just proof of how much of your memories you've already recovered," explained America. "The… your mind knows that it's missing pieces. So it's putting everything back where it belongs while it heals. And thus, floating swings!"

Stan was still frowning, a look of discomfort on his face as he continued to stare at the broken swingset. "Would- would the missing pieces -my memories- eventually come back on their own?" An unpleasant sensation began to twist in his stomach. Being back here… it was starting to remind him how broken he was. Soft whispers began to murmur in the back of his head, too soft to make out but given time, he suspected they would grow louder.

Sensing Stan's growing turmoil, America bit his lip for a moment before answering. "Some of them. Probably a lot of them. But I don't think they all would. What worries me is that, well, some memories are more like support beams. Your mind won't be able to hold these gaps open forever," he continued, nodding at the ghostly voids in the playset, "and that could eventually bring, well, a lot crashing down. Maybe everything. Or the blanks are insignificant and you live out the rest of your life with no further complications." He shrugged. "There's just no way to know without taking a look. And if we're already doing that…" he voice trailed off.

"Then we may as well try and fix things," Stan finished with a soft sigh. Crossing his arms against his chest, Stan couldn't help but hunch in on himself. There were really only two choices, weren't there? Bring everything back, the good and the bad _(it was going to be all bad, wasn't it?)_ or risk losing his mind entirely.

"I can put the missing memories back," America stated, voice calm and level. "You'll be able to find the gaps in your mind, feel which are the big ones and the order we should go in. It'll take time and you'll have to process each memory, integrate it back into your mind. I'll do what I can do help. This," he gestured to the swing set, "is one of the smaller holes. It shouldn't ripple out and trigger too many other memories to return so you shouldn't get overwhelmed. But it's your call, Stan. We can leave now or we can give this one a try. It's your decision."

"Those are pretty shitty options." Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Stan studied the broken swingset, America waiting quietly, patiently beside him. As he stared at the worn wood and metal, he could feel the gaps in his memory. He knew he and Ford had spent hours on and around these swings, playing and running and getting into trouble. But nothing specific. No solid, set moments came to mind. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen the swings in person. Maybe… maybe trying this one memory would be okay. See what happened.

Decision made, Stan squared his shoulders, unconsciously shifting his stance from _tired old man_ to _experienced boxing champ_ , he gave America a short nod. "Do it." Without any hesitation, America reached out and plunged his hand directly in the gap where the ropes should have hung. And Stan remembered.

* * *

_Violent tremors wracked his body as Stan sat on his swing. The ropes, long since worn smooth by hundreds of playing children, cut into his hands as he clutched at them, trying and failing to stay upright. He couldn't stop the broken sobs, the tears rolling hot down his face, or the snot dripping from his nose onto his shirt. He didn't even try._

_He was… was… homeless. He had no home. No parents. No gruff, stern father. No wild, story-filled mother. No…_

_No brothers._

_No twin._

_His final, desperate plea for a High-Six hung unanswered and forlorn back ho- back at the pawn shop._

_He'd driven to the beach on automatic, retracing the route he and F-Ford had taken for years and years until he'd ended up at the swings. Their swings. The royal thrones of the Kings of New Jersey. Now they were just lifeless pieces of wood._

_A hard breeze suddenly blew in off the ocean, carrying cold air that bit deep in his thin undershirt and shocked him into silence. For a moment._

_The tears returned but with less intensity. He- he needed to think. To plan. He'd have to work extra hard now that he didn't have Ford's big brain to lean- drag-_

_He needed to work extra hard._

_He couldn't go back to school. Ford would ignore him. Crampelter and his goons would fall into a frenzy like sharks smelling blood in the water. He'd put a target on_ _both_ _their backs. Ford was- was strong. Stronger than he knew. He'd- he'd be better off if Stan wasn't there to drag him down._

_He had a change of clothes and a few random canned goods that had been in the bag D- Fillbrick had thrown at him. His boxing gear was in the trunk, along with a decent amount of spare change. The Stanmobile would be good shelter until he could get a job. Wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in-_

_Craa-aack_ _._

_The swing collapsed out from under him, wood flying as he crashed to the ground. The sand, packed down by countless feet stomping and swinging back and forth, was cold and hard as he slammed into. Pain exploded first in his butt then his head as he hit the ground. The broken swing, thrashing back and forth, collided against his the side of his head as he rebounded upwards. Jagged wood tore into his skin and he could feel splinters digging into his flesh._

_Stan dropped back down to the ground. Between crying harder than ever before and now this… he felt like he'd been worked over in the boxing ring by someone 100 pounds heavier and 10 years more experienced. The remains of the swing swayed back and forth above him, inches from his nose. He lay there, tired and hurting inside and out. Once the pain had dropped to manageable levels, he'd get up. Find a place to park the Stanmobile so he could get some sleep. And then… he'd show them. He'd make the millions he'd cost Ford. He'd make it up to his brother, shove his boot up Filbrick ass, and take their mother far, far away from Glass Shard Beach. He. Would. Do. It._

* * *

 Stan came back to himself slowly, sensation returning to his limbs a bit at a time. He was shaking, the shock of remembering that night on the beach- he could still feel the cold Atlantic air, the pain of the jagged wood piercing his skin, the grit of cold sand under his fingers. At the same time, he could also feel strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close to a strong chest and a cheek pressed against his head.

"You're safe. You have a warm home," a voice murmured against his head. It had been saying that for a while, he realized. "You have a warm bed, lots of food. Your family loves you and can't wait for you to come home." Over and over, the voice spoke, tirelessly repeating the same words. Slowly, the biting ocean air disappeared, the splinters digging into his skin faded, and he felt grass, not sand, under his hands.

With clumsy hands, Stan reached up and awkwardly patted the arm wrapped protectively around him. "I'm… I'm okay now," he stuttered. Above him, America just hummed and continued to hold tight. And that- that was okay. He was okay.

Eventually, the nation sighed and fell silent, loosening his hold and letting Stan slip free. He watched, waiting patiently for Stan to say something.

"That was intense," the older looking man finally said.

"There are others that will be worse," America replied. "Much worse. But there are good ones, too. And I'll be there every time if you're willing to continue."

Stan sat quiet on the ground for several minutes, legs splayed out in front of him as he leaned back onto his hands. The swingset was, well, not fixed but whole again. The broken seat still hung limp its rope but it was like that in real life. Or, had been, the last time he'd seen it. Another sign of his broken life. But happily other memories had returned besides that one terrible night, slotting themselves neatly into place in his mind. The time he and Ford had successfully chased Crampelter away from their "thrones", the time Ford had very nearly managed to swing _all the way around_ , swinging over sideways to kiss Carla as the sun set after their first date.

The holes in his mind suddenly didn't seem nearly so big. The rough edges, the spots where there was just -nothing- suddenly didn't feel nearly so harsh. Perhaps, with America there to anchor him and protect him, perhaps he could see it through. Endure every missing dark moment, find lost moments of peace and happiness.

"You'll stay?" The words tumbled out of Stan's mouth before he realized it.

America nodded. "Through each and every one," he promised.

"Right. Let's keep going."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Huge shout-out to a friend, a Licensed Professional Counselor, for consulting on the opening scene.

_The anesthesia made his limbs wobbly and the lights hazy. White clad nurses and orderlies carefully helped him stagger over to a padded, cloth covered table surrounded by all sorts of monitors and machines._

_Stan, his thoughts swirling sluggishly through his mind, noticed the doctor fiddling with a small machine at the head of the table. It had a small screen, lots of dials and lights. There were pads attached to it with long wires as well as something made of rubber shaped like the letter U._

_The doctor…_

_Stan didn't like him, he was pretty sure, even through the fog filling his mind. And the doctor didn't like him. Old, cranky, could be heard muttering about politics taking over professional standards. Then he'd glare at Stan, clearly linking him and the changes together somehow._

" _How wonderful to see you again, Stanley," the doctor declared in a bored voice as the orderlies helped him onto the table. "We're almost done with your treatment, isn't that wonderful?"_

_It took almost a full minute for the question to sink into Stan's mind. Then he gave a jerky nod. He didn't like this. He thought- thought the doctor used more electricity that he should. Other patients undergoing this, they recovered much faster. The soreness, the brief patches of memory lost right before and after the treatment. Sometimes he wondered why he had ever agreed to this._

_But the awful darkness that had started taking over so much of his life was further away, had been since he'd been dragged into this hospital, started talking to the doctors, taking the drugs they gave him, and let the angry, nosy prick shock his brain three days a week. For the first time in_ _ **years**_ _Stan was actually starting to think he might have a future, might be able to reconcile with Ford._

_And those thoughts- those darkest of thoughts- about jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge or suicide-by-cop had faded away._

_Hands opened his jaw, sliding rubber between his teeth and then a plastic mask went over his face. Cool air began to blow, smelling faintly antiseptic, and the pure oxygen only made everything seem to float. Distantly, he felt a prick in his arm and cold conducting jelly on his temples as the electrodes were applied. Wires draped across his torso as a nurse finished hooking him up to the heart rate monitor. Then she smiled down at him, eyes dark and warm and comforting. Stan tried to smile back. He liked her. He trusted her. "Countdown from ten, Stan," she ordered. "We'll be all done when you wake up."_

* * *

 

Stan fell back against the hallway wall as another memory settled back into his mind. He could still feel the phantom ache in his jaw, his limbs. There was a throbbing in the back of his skull that from more than just the sheer _number_ of memories he and America had been recovering.

As America shut the newly repaired door, he gave Stan a worried look. "You doing alright?" he asked. "We can take a break."

"Just a breather," Stan grunted, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Yeesh, I feel like I'm coming off a weekend bender," he groaned.

After looking around for a moment, America suddenly zipped off down the oddly jointed corridor, reappearing a few moments later with a rickety stool. Setting it down next to the older looking man, he then reached out and gently tugged Stan over and down, helping him slide down the fall onto the stool. Once settled, he dropped down next to him on the floor, leaning against his side in an amusing mimicry of the position their physical bodies were slumped in outside the mindscape.

The two men sat quietly, the only splash of color in the black and white building. It felt like they'd been working for hours, walking all around the landscape outside the metaphorical depiction of the Shack to find and repair holes in the foundation, shore up the cliffside the building loomed over, even flying up into the air to patch billiard-ball sized holes in the floating 8-Ball moon illuminating the land below.

The lost memories, the structural pieces as America referred to them, had encompassed a wide scope of moments and activities. The gleeful moment of his first big score in Vegas, the terror as a mob screamed and chased him across the New Jersey county line. Horrifying moments of terror and transgression and pain while in prison and quiet, peaceful nights stretched out on top of the roof of the Stanmobile enjoying the stars overhead with a full belly.

He'd learned that his beloved El Diablo had been stolen and impounded more times than he could count, yet somehow he always managed to find it again, no matter if he'd been gone for days on a job or years locked away in a hellhole in South America.

He and America had spent extra time puttering around the memories of his time as Stetson Pinefield, a persona that spent several successful months conning folks at pool and billiards overseas. Even at the time, he'd been unable to resist the lure of tourism and after setting aside Stetson's urban cowboy garb, Stan Pines had spent countless sunlight hours staring around him in wide-eyed fascination at the wonders of London, Birmingham, Leeds, and other big cities. Upon returning to those memories, America had grabbed his hand and dragged him into the memories, eyes shining and words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid-fire so he could show Stan _just one thing real quick, promise_.

Stan made a mental note to tell Ford that they _had_ to invite America along for at least part of their pending ocean expedition. The nation had a deep, genuine love of history and clearly hungered for the opportunity to share more personal anecdotes. Add in America's long life and general physical resilience to harm and some of the stories he'd already shared at been _hilarious_.

And re-experiencing his memories that way, with America at his side rattling off facts and stories about hauling around drunken nations and scheming, childish pranks… it made some of the harsher memories easier to deal with. Everything he'd done as Hal Forrester, for example. Stan suppressed an inward shudder.

He'd kept his promise. America had stood by him through each moment, ready with a supporting arm or a shoulder to cry on, to distract him from the pain of reliving something awful. And never, ever casting judgement or shame.

Stan let himself sink into the warmth radiating from America, still pressed against his side, head resting against the side of his chest. The old man's arm had fallen over the nation's shoulders and for a moment, just a moment, Stan let himself drift.

He was glad America was here, with his endless, boundless pools of love and support. He could feel the genuine affection from the country, echoing throughout every fiber of his being, in every corner of his lands. From the deepest roots of the trees to the tips of the mountains. Even up beyond the limits of the world into space, to the moon. The excitement of the moon landing had swept even him up, struggling as he was to survive those early years alone and on the road. He remembered the buzz in the air, every TV tuned in…

_Thick gloves, thick suits, feeling so weightless as his people bounced across the surface of the Moon - the MOON he'd done it they'd done it, the future was NOW, everyone in his lands was watching, some scared but mostly so happy and excited, it all reverberated through him-_

The warmth at his side vanished as America jerked away. Turning slightly, he gave Stan a sheepish grin. It wasn't the first time since they'd entered the mindscape that some of America's mind had bleed through to Stan. These glimpses into the nation was _fascinating_ and _terrifying_ and reminded Stan just how _alien_ the man beside him actually was.

"S'allright."

Stan didn't mind, not really. The reverberations, the thoughts and feelings and weight of millions of souls, were already fading. Compared to the strain of having his mind burn around him to destroy Bill Cipher? A few seconds of being America were a piece of cake. Not to mention how that, more than _anything_ else, had proven to Stan how _genuine_ his nation was. He meant, and believed, every word he said, wanted desperately for his people, and the people across the entire _world_ to be free and happy.

These moments where the line between Stan and America blurred briefly meant more to him than any of the memories they'd recovered. No one, not Ford, not the kids- no one would ever, could ever love and care for him as honestly and deeply as America did. He couldn't always act directly- the sheer scope and weight of what it meant to be a nation had been clear from the crossovers- but he wanted to. No one had ever been so devoted to Stan and no one ever would.

Seventeen years of longing and yearning for something different.

Ten and some change years alone and homeless.

Thirty years of self-imposed isolation and devotion.

Whatever time he had left, he would carry with him the knowledge and security of finally knowing there was someone out there who cared, would always care, and would never reject him.

Pressing calloused hands to his knees, Stan pushed himself up and offered a hand to America. "Got a few more holes rattling around," he declared, "might as well go finish what we started."

* * *

 

Night had fallen on Gravity Falls. Ford dithered for a moment in the kitchen, torn between grabbing just a box of crackers so he could return sooner to his vigil next to his brother and taking the time for something a little more substantial so he'd have more energy for the wait.

The wait had been… distressing. Far more than he'd expected. Ford had spent thirty years on the run, with only occasional periods of solace and safety or imprisonment to break the pattern of his life. And now, after the events of Weirdmageddon, he'd found himself truly sidelined for the first time in, well, decades.

He couldn't accompany America into Stan's mindscape. The mission they were on now… it would be wrong for him to intrude. Whatever memories existed there, they were Stan's (and, he supposed, America's). His brother would share what he wished but he had to respect that there would be things he had seen or done that he would never speak of.

Ford understood that. He felt the same about a number of the events on his own long journey.

So instead, he kept guard over the vulnerable bodies in the living room. He organized his notes, rewriting and drawing pages from his journals that they'd copied before tossing them into the Bottomless Pit. The journals still held valuable information but also pages of madness and despair. And that was why, in a discussion with the entire Pines family, they'd agreed to Mabel's suggestion that the journals be cast away once and for all. They could retain the information about ghosts and unicorns and the Lilli-putt-ians without putting the world in danger. And so, after about ten minutes at the copier, Ford had captured his notes on the Weird and they could discard everything that was frightening and dangerous.

Creating his notes, without the specter of Bill or the inconvenience of invisible ink, proved to be an excellent way to pass the time. Redrawing his sketches of Gravity Falls took him back to the days before Bill and gave him the opportunity add corrections and updates. Three journals had been condensed to one slightly longer journal now that he wasn't also using the book as an emotional outlet or a place to record an increasing number of nightmares.

He'd started a second journal, leading with everything he'd learned so far about America and how he was helping Stan. It wasn't the final product, however. No, he liked how redoing his previous work had allowed him to streamline and clarify his research. This book was for him and Stan alone. And perhaps the kids when they visited again.

Ford was still standing in the kitchen, torn and indecisive, when he heard movement, the brush of cloth against cloth, coming from the living room. Casting his hunger aside, he turned and bolted, rounding the corner and hopping down the short step into the living room just in time to see America blink sleepily, slowly straightening up from Stan's leg even as his brother scrunched his eyes and flexed his fingers.

America clambered to his feet, somewhat wobbly from sitting unmoving for so long. He gave Ford a small wave, covering his mouth with his other hand as a yawn escaped him. Turning then to Stan, he shook a scolding finger at the older looking man. "You go right to bed," America ordered. "That's a lot of, of- stuff that we just did. Your mind and your body need time to rest. So skedaddle."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Groaning softly at his own small aches and pains, Stan pressed his hands against the arms of his chair and levered himself up and out of the yellow seat. "Everything alright out here?" he asked, glancing over at Ford.

"Fine, fine," Ford was quick to reassure. "And- how are you feeling, Stan?" He was torn, wanting nothing more than to give his brother a thorough examination, to check for any lingering memory gaps or side effects … but Stan needed rest. And he deserved privacy, to decide for himself how Ford could help him.

"Tired," Stan replied. But he gave Ford a thumbs-up, shades of his childhood self flashing up behind the gesture. "Like he said, we, well, we did a lot. But everything up here," he tapped the side of his head with a finger, "it's back to how it was before Bill."

"I'm relieved to hear that." The fist that had been clenched around Ford's heart relaxed. "The children did call a few hours ago. I told them you were taking a nap. I ... wasn't sure what, if anything, you wanted to tell them about America and his offer."

"Thanks for chatting with them-" A sudden yawn broke up whatever he was next going to. "We'll call tomorrow. I'm gonna go hit the hay. Night, Ford. Night, America. And thanks again." Looking increasingly tired, Stan turned and headed for the stairs, deliberately bumping his shoulder against Ford's as he passed.

As the sound of his feet on the stairs slowly faded, America walked over to Ford and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I could go for a pot of coffee."

"That- sounds heavenly," Ford agreed. "I was also considering making something for dinner. I'm not much of a cook but nutrition is important." He paused, looking towards the stairs as a small frown crossed his face.

"For now, Stan needs rest more than food," America firmly interrupted. Taking hold of Ford's elbow, he spun the scientist around the started marching him towards the kitchen. "Let's see what's available. And … we should probably talk."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I am genuinely proud of that opening scene. It makes me really happy to have written that. My LPC friend loved it, helped me make some tweaks and highlight that Stan consented to EST and just how bad off his mental health had gotten.
> 
> Almost to the end of the story! Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

In the hours of quiet vigil, Ford had forgotten his initial impression of America: that the man was a living whirlwind of chaos made flesh. As the nation was currently rocketing from one end of the kitchen to another, chattering about any- and everything that came to mind while he swiftly chopped vegetables, dug into the cabinets for jars and cans, and dumped everything into a large pot he'd set to simmer on the stove, Ford found himself remembering the barely suppressed energy from their first meeting.

The scientist had quickly found himself pushed into a seat at the rickety kitchen table with a plastic sleeve of cracks, a block of cheese, and a knife to "tide him over" until the stew America had decided to make was ready.

"It'll keep for a long time, stick to your ribs, and you can just leave it on the stove with the lid on," the nation had stated. "Easy enough for two busy bachelors getting ready for a trip."

"Yes, that sounds lovely," Ford had desperately interjected, "but you are a guest so I really think I should be the one-"

America had spun around, jabbing a large wooden spoon in his direction. "Unless you can tell me HERE AND NOW that you learned to cook while you were traveling the multiverse, I am not letting you near the stove. I was in Stan's mind. _I saw what you did._ "

And thus, having no actual counter argument (he doubted he could convince America to adjourn to a campfire outside), Ford reluctantly started snacking on crackers and cheese while the living personification of his homeworld's first global superpower made stew. Casting a wistful look at the temperamental coffee maker still groaning away as it brewed, Ford absently drummed his fingers on the table top, hoping America's frantic pace would slow soon so he could inquire further after Stan's condition.

Finally, America deemed his prep work done and he dropped the lid onto the pot and turned down the heat slightly to let the stew simmer. Plopping down into the chair facing Ford, he reached across the table, snagged the cheese block and knife and hacked off a large chunk. "You and the twins," he started without preamble, "did a really, really great job helping Stan recover his memory."

"Evidently we didn't do enough," Ford sighed. A familiar wave of guilt crept over the scientist, a surge of emotion that had become quite familiar since he'd pulled the trigger to wipe Stan's mind and destroy Bill. Pressing his lips together as he bowed his head, pressure built up in his eyes as the memory of Stan, so empty and pliable in the forest clearing, crossed his mind.

A piece of cheese ricocheted off his forehead and fell onto the table.

Aghast, Ford's head snapped back up.

America, looking wholly unimpressed as he stared back with one eyebrow raised slightly, had another piece of cheese poised for launch. "Let's try that again," he announced. "You and the twins did a really great job helping Stan recover his memory."

"Gee, thanks for saying that, America," the nation continued, dropping his voice down an octave in obvious mimicry. "It is impressive that we were able to help him rebuild probably what amounts to at least 80% of his _entire life_ in less than a week considering we had such little material and personal stories to help remind him. Good gad, who'd have thought that a memory erasing gun built by world's greatest mechanical and computer engineer would be so gosh-darned effective. But, darn it, we love Stan and were determined so we persevered until we literally hit the absolute limit of what we could help with." Now finished, America leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest after popping his cheese projectile into his mouth.

"Well, I suppose when you put it _that_ way," Ford muttered. Then sighed. "I- It's unfair that Stanley had to pay the price for my mistake. I was the one who built the portal. I made the original deal with Bill. I- I'm responsible for- for everything that's happened."

"True, but you also did everything you could to fix everything. ' _Could have'_ and ' _Shouldn't have'_ don't have a place in the equation. What happened happened. And when push came to shove, you did everything you could to fix it." With a small, understanding smile, America leaned forward again, propping his arms on the table. "And someday, you'll feel that way too."

"I suppose. In the meantime," Ford continued, determinedly pushing on ahead, "could you tell me a bit more about how Stan is? I- I do understand that whatever memories you and he worked to restore are his to share as he chooses but I would like to know what I can about the, ah, experience."

"That I can do," America agreed. He took a moment to think, cutting off another hunk of cheese. "Well, as you know, there are periods in Stan's life neither you, the kids, or Soos knew anything about. And you had little to nothing with which to trigger his memories of those times. Some of them were, hmm, important, you could say. Not in how the actual impact of those events but in what they meant to Stan. We basically . . ." America's voice trailed off for a moment, uncertain how to find the words. Talking about this to Stan earlier had been easier. Abstract concepts flowed better in the mindscape.

"Even without knowing _what_ the memories were," America finally continued, "Stan's mind knew where the holes were and he was able to guide us to the gaps. I was able to slip the memories back into place. He- he had to relieve them, basically, so we had to take extra time so he could process each one and start integrating them back into his mind. Some were bad, some good, some, well, just happened. Beyond that, there wasn't much else to do.

"Well, I say that. I will admit, I did a thorough look through the entire mindscape. Maybe more than Stan realized," America added. His lips pursed briefly. "Let's just say that what I can see and what you or Stan can see are different. I see, well, more. Deeper. But I had to in order to confirm Bill really is gone. So you can take that comfort, at least. There are no Bill fragments lurking anywhere in your brother's mind." He would have known, would have recognized the alien, non-linear, _non-American_ mind if there had been even a flicker of it in Stan's mind.

Eyes bulging, Ford pressed a hand to his chest. He hadn't even _considered_ the possibility that Bill- that Stan's sacrifice-

"Nothing? There's nothing of Bill left? You're sure?"

"Yes. Definitely. Absolutely."

Ford let his head fall to the table with a soft groan. He needed a moment. Just- just one moment. His nation let him be, setting himself to work demolishing the last the cheese as the coffee pot (finally!) finished dripping away and the stew began to fill the room with a mouth-watering scent.

There was a soft _clink_ then a thud and Ford could suddenly feel heat radiating near his face. The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled his nose and he eagerly sat up just enough to grasp the mug and take a long sip.

America settled down into a chair next to him this time, cradling his own mug in his hands. "So how are _you_ doing?" the nation asked in a soft, gentle voice.

Ford took his time considering the question. "I'm … I'm alright," he finally replied after sitting up straighter to take another sip. "Although, I will confess to feeling a bit adrift. I've been chasing for a way to defeat Bill once and for all for so long that now that he's gone, well, it feels like I have so many options now. I do want to check on the Arctic and happily, Stanley is quite eager to go with me. But after that…"

"What do you want to do?" Cocking his head to the side as he nursed his own drink, America gave him an inquiring look. "Beyond just researching a cryptid reporting _here_ or an anomalous reading _there._ More, well, Big Picture, I suppose you could say."

"I want to keep Stan safe."

America smiled behind his mug.

"I want to keep the children safe, continue to teach them and be with them. I want…" Furrowing his brow for a moment, Ford continued, the words spilling out faster and faster, almost too fast to follow. "I do want to continue my research but- I have family I want to explore it with and share it with. I want to sail across the world with my brother and come back to Gravity Falls every summer when Dipper and Mabel are on vacation. I want to be able to visit them with Stan for the holidays and see them graduate and go to college if they want and grow into adults."

A look of surprise, then happiness overtook Ford's face. His eyes went wide and a grin appeared. "I suppose I already have everything," he realized. "Bill is defeated, I have family again, Stan again. I have a home here at the Shack or wherever Stan and I end up because … because Stan got me home. I'm _home_."

A mischievous glint appearing in his eyes, America set down his mug and rested his chin on his hand. "And what do you need to help you with all that?"

With a soft laugh, Ford shifted in his chair to dig into the pockets of his pants, fishing out the last envelope America had given him. "I suppose that question has to do with this?" he asked waving the thin envelope at the nation.

"Well, it did occur to me that you may need some assistance with some of the more day-to-day matters."

"Some assistance?"

"You haven't published in thirty-odd years. The lack of scholarly output would make getting another grant challenging."

"So you're, what, offering me full funding?"

"With some caveats." America gave the scientist a knowing look. "This would be coming out of my personal finances, so I would expect regular reports, that you track expenses, submit proposals before haring off on some new adventure. I do get some veto power, especially if your research would take you into another country. I'd also require regular medical checkups for you and Stan. I'm happy to provide you both with medical insurance which, in case you hadn't heard, has become a rather complicated issue."

"Yes, you did state as much in the proposal." Setting the envelope down onto the table, Ford tapped the paper sleeve. "What do you get out funding us? What happens to my research or any tools or techniques we develop?"

"They're your's, free and clear, to do with as you please. I would like to have input or at least a heads-up on publications and inventions," America added, tilting his head slightly to the side. "I trust you but I do also have a better overall picture of the current state of technology and what's being developed. The world is also much, much more globally connected than it was when you were sucked into the portal, so there are also a number of geopolitical concerns that I don't think anyone in the Pines family has any inkling of.

"I have no intention," America emphasized, "of slowing down or trying to hijack or disrupt your research. It's important, though, especially since you and Stan are planning on being fairly isolated far from my borders, that we make sure you aren't somehow putting a target on your back or kidnapped by a foreign power so they can try and get you to develop something for them."

Understanding seeping in, Ford nodded slowly. "You want to be able to apply the brakes so the Pines tendency towards impulsivity doesn't get us hurt or worse," he summarized.

"Exactly." America set his mug down on the table and folded his hands, his face falling still. "The Pines family has done more for me than anyone else on this Earth since my literal Founding Fathers. Whatever you, Stan, and the kids want to do, I will to move heaven and earth to try and make it possible. That may seem extreme but it's not. From my perspective, it doesn't even begin to repay the debt between us. Giving you those resources, however, does mean that I need to make damn sure that I'm taking full responsibility for the potential outcome of you _having_ those resources.

"That's what the 'brakes' are for. That's why I included requirements about reporting, tracking expenses, and all the usual grant stuff in the proposal. Those things are annoying but they do serve a proven, important function. And I'm hoping that, by explaining all this to you, you're willing to go along with it. If not," and here America's beaming smile reappeared, "then please, please, please get a mobile phone and put my phone number in there as an emergency contact. And know that whatever you decide about this, my support for you and Stan or Dipper and Mabel throughout won't be affected in any way."

Ford didn't reply right away. Instead, he tugged the simple letter out of the envelope and unfolded it on the table, absently smoothing down the sharp creases. The letter, lacking any fancy letterhead, stated clearly and simply, the terms of the grant offer: the actual annual amount America was offering _(surely the number of zeros there was an error)_ , basic terms of employment and benefits, and the standard boilerplate regarding regular reports and publications that could be found in any grant offer. A summary of conditions regarding submitting publications and patents, again, not at all unusual.

As his eyes flowed over the paper, Ford weighed the offer against what he and Stan had already discussed about the upcoming expedition, considered the slight worry that had flashed briefly in his brother's eyes as they started drafting up the budget they'd need to actually set sail.

America's offer was ... stupidly generous, in all honesty. He had extended an offer of what amounted to unlimited funding for the rest of their natural lives and simply asked for the opportunity to offer caution or suggest an alternative course of action. He might put his foot down if their research took them to hostile countries but that was probably for the better in the long run.

"I'll need to go over this with Stan," Ford finally replied. "But, I feel confident that we'll be able to accept your most generous offer." It was a solemn moment, so the scientist did his best to maintain a calm, controlled expression. But inside, a little voice was squealing in excitement, jumping up and down as he imagined exactly what he and Stan would be able to accomplish with this kind of funding.

This grant was the one all scientists _dreamed_ of.

America, evidently, did not feel any need to be restrained. The nation let out a loud _(very loud)_ cheer, and drummed his hands on the table, sending the mugs and cheese knife rattling. "I'll call Nebraska tomorrow and have her draw up all the legal stuff. She handles all the, hmm, family lawyering stuff. You know," he wriggled his hand in a vague, all encompassing gesture, "the non-work related stuff." His brow furrowed as his mind began to trace out all the paperwork that this was going to require. "Her and Iowa should be able to handle getting all the accounts set-up, but New York will have to sign off on a lot of it …" His voice drifted off, eyes unfocusing as the web of phone calls and emails began to grow.

"Sounds like it's a good thing that we're not in too much of a hurry," Ford mused in quiet fascination. He'd dug his new journal 2 out again and had started mapping out the states and responsibilities as America mentioned them (all in code, of course. After a moment's thought, he added a note to teach Stan the cipher for this one.)

"Hmm? Oh, right." America chuckled. "It's complicated. But, having 50 states-slash-minions does help." Taking a sniff of the air, he pushed himself up from the table and hurried over to the stove, taking the lid off the large pot. Instantly, the enticing smell of the stew grew dramatically with the smell of carrots, onions, beef, and spices. Giving the mixture a quick stir, America nodded to himself and stepped to the side. "Stanford Pines, get over here and feed yourself," he ordered with a smile. "No one's going hungry on my watch."

* * *

 

As the sun slowly rose over the treeline the next day, America was back at the Shack, his luggage in the trunk of his car. In less than an hour, he planned to be back on the road, heading east to return to worried family and the heavy responsibilities of being a living nation. But first, he had a few good-byes to say.

"The paperwork should arrive anywhere between a week to a month from now," America explained to the two men standing on the back porch of the Mystery Shack. Around the corner, they could just make out the sound of Soos leading the mid-morning tour into the Shack as the tourists laughed at some joke or comment he'd made. "It'll all depends on just how mad the others are and how crazy everything was while I was out of commission. Times like that are a bit 'All hands on deck' so I'm not 100% certain what's going on right now. But hey! No new global wars got started, so that's a plus!"

Ford shook his head. "The scope of your day-to-day world frightens me," he stated in a wry voice.

"And vice-versa," America countered with a grin. "You deal with really cool non-humans and terrifying ghosts on a regular basis. And ghosts give me the heebee-jeebees, so I'll take worrying about nuclear proliferation any day."

"Normal people are scared of ghosts," Stan muttered, looking less amused. "Because _ghosts_." An elbow nudged his side. "Anyways," he continued, casting Ford a sidelong look. "Thanks for, well, everything. Sorting out the IDs, the IRS, my memories - that's a lot. Even in Gravity Falls, it would have been hard to get all the stuff fixed. So thanks. Again. And I know the kids will want to say the same when we tell them all about it later. They just started back up in school, so they won't be able to say that in person but, uh, we'll make sure they know we passed their appreciation along already."

"I'm just glad I could help," America replied. "You stopped Bill and forced back the Nightmare Dimension. That- what that was doing to me-" He stopped. Shrugged. Stan had an idea, now, what that had done to him. Perhaps he'd be able to better express to Ford what stopped Weirdmaggeddon meant to him. And judging by the small smirk now on the man's face, he had a fairly good idea what America was thinking.

He pushed on "Anyways, I'll emai- I'll text-" America stopped again, suddenly giving them both a hard look as he realized his usual methods of communication were useless with these two old men. "I'm going to send you a laptop and cell phones," he announced after a moment. "There will be written instructions in the box. Follow them so you can do email, video chats, and so on. Do not take these things apart. Do not try to improve them. Do not give them to McGucket. You are required to have a functioning laptop and at least one phone at all times. If McGucket gives you a replacement, that's fine but it needs to be able to do all the things as the devices I'm going to send you."

"Now, I'm sure we can manage just fine with letters and post-" started Ford.

"No, absolutely not." America looked rather peeved. "This is a requirement. I'm making it a requirement." He jabbed an accusatory finger at the twins. "You will have zero excuses to not communicate on, _at least_ , a weekly basis with me or your family. If you go too long without messaging, I'm going to come and find you and you will not enjoy the conversation we have once I find you. _And I will find you_ ," America half promised, half threatened.

"Meh. I'll have Soos take a look and tell me what I need to know." It was clear Stan also thought America's determination to drag them into the 21st century unnecessary but … hell, it was hard for him to argue with the guy. Not when he knew so well the love and concern driving America.

The nation himself didn't look wholly convinced by Stan's statement but ultimately decided to just push on. "I left my personal cell number and the number of my burner phone on the fridge," he continued. "I'll be back to my regular cell in a few days but if you need anything before then, call the burner. I'll keep it on me for another week or so once I'm back home just in case."

"All right, already," Stan exclaimed throwing his hands up into the air. "Yeesh, you're hovering like Ma did the first time we drove to Atlantic City by ourselves the first time."

That made America laugh. Jumping up onto the deck, he wrapped first Stan, then Ford, up in a powerful hug that lifted them clear up off the wood planks. "All right, all right, I'll get going," he promised as he lowered Ford back down onto the deck. "You two stay safe. Or at least, promise me you'll at least try not to get into trouble."

"We will make every effort," Ford promised, quickly extracting himself from the embrace. His cheeks bore a hint of red at the unbridled affection. "I hope your own journey is swift and uneventful."

"Ah, that sounds boring." Chucking again, America leapt back down onto the ground and reluctantly headed for his car.

The twins waved back as America pulled out of the grass lot, waving frantically at them through the back window. As car drove out of sight and the sound of the engine faded, an air of quiet fell on the Shack once more. Even the sound of the tourists around the front of the house seemed muted. Unlike after Dipper and Mabel's departure, this stillness didn't feel heavy and oppressive. America's presence lingered in the air, as the did the memory of his laughter and rapid fire, excited way of speaking. The stew he'd made the day before was warming up in the kitchen and still held enough for the brothers to feast on for days and days if they wanted.

This time when Stan and Ford walked back into the Shack, there was no sadness, no lingering concerns about the fragility of Stan's mind or the challenges they would face simply preparing for their voyage to the Arctic. The brothers knew there were still many, many issues they would need to talk, and fight, about. That there were hidden hot topics that would inevitably explode in either rage or grief. But this time, they were determined to see these incident through. They'd been an unprecedented opportunity to reconnect and finally fulfill all their dreams at the same time.

The door to the Shack swung closed and the twins picked back up the books and magazines they'd gathered to help plan for their expedition. It just a short month or two, they would finally leave Gravity Falls behind for the ocean.

They couldn't wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that ends my wacky little story! I have a few deleted scenes I may post and I'm working on a continuation of this story that I hope y'all will enjoy. Thanks for reading!


	8. Deleted Scene -- Weirdmageddon Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene -- Weirdmageddon begins and America breaks into a thousand pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I wrote for this story. I really like it but I ultimately decided that it was too much to start with. I also view this more of a Gravity Falls story than a Hetalia story and I didn't like starting everything out with America.
> 
> That being said, it did help me really wrap my head around the broader effects of Weirdmageddon.
> 
> State personifications are Original Characters.
> 
> I haven't done any kind of editing on this so I'm assuming it's full of typos and missing words.

One moment, America was tightening his belt as he dressed for a long day of meetings, the next he was on the floor, screaming, back arched as he jerked and spasmed, fingers stabbing down into the old wood floorboards and ripping up shards of broken timber.

The splinters digging into his skin, the iron nails piercing his flesh, the blood oozing down the side of his face from where he’d hit it on the way down--

None of it mattered.

He didn’t even feel it.

Far on the other side of his land, a literal hellscape had opened up to consume what had been a sleepy logging town in the state of Oregon.

In an instant, the delightfully weird town of Gravity Falls went from a small crossroad of the mundane and the supernatural to wrong.

As the dream demon Bill Cipher howled and cackled in triumph, Gravity Falls warped, changed - tearing and rending America’s mind as the new dimension overtook the town.

Trees turned into twisted feet, landmarks like the water tower and giant wooden lumberjack screeched as an unnatural life and sentience was bestowed on them. Water turned to blood and the air was quickly filled with ash, smoke, and the other strange and frightening smells.

As even more demons appeared, his people were run down, captured and . . . changed . . . America’s mind began to fracture. The _wrongness_ of this new dimension imposing itself on him-

As the natural laws of the world were twisted and broken-

America’s screams suddenly stopped with a choking sound. Eyes rolled back in his head and his body began to spasm. His mind, his boy, unable to cope with the forced, horrific warping of a part of himself, shattered into a mess of misfiring neurons.

Once the seizure ended, America found a mind - a single, brave, young, defiant, foolish mind that roared in fury and vowed to put an end to this- Weirdmageddon.

Clinging desperately to this mind even as a new wave of wrong swept over him-the-land-his-people, sparking a new round of misfires that twisted the body collapsed on the ground in Washington, DC.

In Gravity Falls, Dipper ran. He ran from Bill’s henchmen, from the smell of the destroyed journals. He was going to find Mabel, Grunkle Stan, Wendy-

A small sob escaped his throat.

_help me help him them us stop bill wrong bad weird stophelpmustpleasestop_

The thought flickered so quickly, Dipper didn’t even realize it came from outside his own mind.

He would find everyone, save Great Uncle Ford, and stop Bill.

Back in Washington, America dimly felt a brief flicker of hope.

* * *

 

He’d known the pain of his injuries before his mind finally grew aware of itself. 

 _Ow_.

He hurt _everywhere_.

It was over.

What was?

They’d won. At a cost--

With a strangled whimper, America struggled to put his thoughts in order.

Weirdmageddon.

The word flashed through his mind, sending a shudder of terror through him while the shards of his battered psyche stabbed at his sanity.Hyperventilating, America struggled to force back the madness he could feel encroaching once more.

Hands suddenly touched him, his face, fingers clutching at his skin.

“Papa, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re safe.”

The voice was hoarse, tired, sad? Upset.

“Just- just breath. Breath. In and out, in and out.” Cutting off with a sob, one of the hands moved, pressing against his chest.

After several moments, America felt a pattern. The hand pressed and relaxed over and over. Pushing back the fear, the insanity lurking so very close, America struggled to follow the pressure, taking in a gasping breath when the hand was light and forcing the air out as the hand pressed down. The rhythm continued for several minutes until America was breathing steadily again.

The voice sighed and then the hands vanished. Metal scraping on tile suddenly sounded and the hands returned, reaching out and clasping one of his. Clumsily, with a hand that didn’t seem to want to more properly, America rotated his hand to clumsily thread his fingers through the other’s.

There was a sudden, quick intake of air. “Papa?” the voice whispered.

When he finally opened uncooperative eyes, when the light stopped burning holes in his skull, a weak smile worked its way across his face. “Hey,” he croaked.

* * *

 

It felt like days had gone by when the doctors finally left the room, when New Jersey’s additional tests started to repeat and New Hampshire forced him out the door. Turning, he fought back a fresh round of tears at the sight of America sitting up and alert against the angled head of the bed. He was frighteningly pale and hollow-eyed but even that was a dramatic improvement over the mindless screaming husk of a man he’d been the day before 

Papa, America, the man who’d been so strong when he’d started gathering the new colonies to him, protecting and loving them as they won independence and became free states. Striving to make peace as their people spread West and their family grew. Refusing to cast blame even as a family squabble turned into a horrific and bloody war.

Giving him another weak smile, America spoke, “What do you think they odds are I’m the only one of our kind to have that many seizures, brain hemorrhages, and strokes?”

“It’s not funny,” New Hampshire whispered. Nothing the doctors tried had stopped the medical episodes and no one, personification and doctor alike, could figure out what was happening. Or _how_ it could be happening to one of _them_.

“Sorry,” america muttered. He stared down at his hands, taking in the bandages wrapped around his fingers, palms, and up his arms. “It just doesn’t quite seem real.”

“If you weren’t one of us you would be dead,” New Hampshire said in a flat voice.

“It I wasn’t . . . this . . . “ he gestured vaguely at himself, “it wouldn’t have hap- Oregon!”

New Hampshire dove forward as America started to clamber out of bed, his movement frantic.

“She’s okay, well, I mean…” Gripping America’s shoulders, New Hampshire forced America to sit back against the bed.

“After Virginia found you,” New Hampshire hesitated, trying to find a non-threatening way to say ‘in the middle of a deadly medical emergency and psychotic episode’ (there wasn’t one). “Um, found you,” he continued awkwardly, “she activated Code Red, got the phone tree going. Washington found Oregon about two hours later. You’ve both been, err, presenting the symptoms, so she came to a little after you did.”

Pulling out his (nearly dead) phone, New Hampshire found the updates Washington had sent out and turned the device around so America could see for himself.

His father reached out and took the device, scrolling back through the messages with a quick flick of a bandaged finger.

“Even Canada doesn’t know,” New Hampshire reported with satisfaction. “I mean, he knows _something’s_ happened but so far, everyone non-American is under the impression you went on another horror movie marathon and we’re still working through the panic attack.”

“Nothing like a well known phobia to keep inquiring minds at bay,” America chuckled.

“If only it truly was an epic misdirect,” New Hampshire sighed wistfully. America’s fear of ghosts was very real if, perhaps, not quite what the other Nations thought it was.

“Brat.” Crossing his arms, America continued, “Now, tell me how-”

“Nuh uh,” New Hampshire interrupted in a sharp voice. “I know _you_ want a full sitrep and _we_ want a debrief from you on what the hell happened but right now you need rest.” 

Recognizing the stubborn expression on New Hampshire’s face, America begrudgingly allowed himself to be tucked back into bed.

“Go home,” America ordered as he pulled the scratchy hospital blanket up to his chin. “You’re making me tired just looking at you.”

Despite clear reluctance, America managed to convince New Hampshire to head home and sleep in a real bed. Two hours later, wind whistling through his hair, America was trying to decide just _how_ mad New Hampshire, Virginia, and the others were going to be once they realized he’d flown the coop.

Glancing around to confirm no other cars were around, America pulled his stolen Cadillac to a stop in front of a small battered looking self storage building. Wincing as he cranked the handle to manually roll the window back up, America took a deep breath before opening the door and climbing out of the car.

Ginny was definitely going to kill him. Or at least chain him to his desk.

But he couldn’t stay in the hospital. Not when trying to remember what had happened made the world twist and bend in on itself while sound warped and became color. Something BIG and TERRIBLE and WEIRD had happened and he had to find out what it was so that he could make sure it never happened ever again. Not to him, not to Oregon, and not to anyone else.

Happily, the lock on his secret storage unit was able to read his biometrics even through the bandages and wounds and he was quick to pull the lock free of the latch. Then, after a bracing, deep breath, he dragged the heavy door open.

Lights flicked on inside the shed, revealing a gleaming, high tech interior. America grinned. He should add a sound system. This was totally a moment that needed some awesome rock music.

The walls of the unit were lined with gleaming stainless steel shelves, each packed to the brim with weapons, ammo, survival gear, and everything else a superpower on the run might ever need. He had supply caches like this scattered all over his land, and even a few in certain select countries abroad as well. It never hurt to be too careful.

Feel better than he had since he had awoken, America stepped into the shed and pulled the door shut behind him.

It didn’t take long to get ready for his surprise road trip, although longer than he would have liked. Still, it was a good test run. He hadn’t done a bug out drill while injured in, what, almost a century.

Once he’d changed out of his stolen scrubs (which he tossed onto one of the now-empty shelves), America grabbed a baseball cap to complete his transformation from America, hospital escapee, to Alfred Jones, Road Warrior.

Taking one last look around the shed, he ran through his mental checklist one last time: extra clothing, food, medical supplies, emergency cell phone, extra gas, extra bits and pieces that could come in handy on a road trip to Destination: Unknown, check check and all check. He was ready to roll.

* * *

 

Casting one final cautious look at the nurse’s station, Virginia pushed a little extra power into her Notice-Me-Not spell and hurried to America’s private room 

She’d raced to the hospital the moment she’d gotten the sleepy text from New Hampshire that he was heading to their father’s house to get some sleep now that he had woken up and visiting hours had ended. It was hard to fault her little brother wanting to sleep somewhere besides a small, hardbacked hospital chair but the thought of America lying alone in the hospital was, well, frightening. Especially after what had just happened.

And, while Ginny loved her father, she was all too aware that “predictable” and “reasonable” and “good at following orders” were not words that described him. Awake, alone, and hurting from a bizarre attack (or accident), it was all the ingredients needed to make America do something very, very foolish.

Virginia stepped into the private hospital with a warm smile on her face as she canceled her concealment spell, one of her father’s favorite books tucked into one arm.

The room was empty.

No no no no no.

A single piece of paper sat forlorn on the neatly made bed.

_“Sounds like y’all have things well in hand! Going on a va-cay while I heal up. <3 u! Xoxo -Alfred”_

The book flew against the wall. “Damn him!”


	9. Deleted Scene -- Searching for Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene -- America sees more than the superficial trappings of the mindscape, which makes searching for Bill much easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really short deleted scene. This is 99% exposition and it just--
> 
> I didn't like how nothing really happens. It really seemed to interrupt the flow of the story, which I wanted to just be a small, tight little thing. I was never able to really get it to work so I just took a few concepts from it and put them in elsewhere.
> 
> I am a little sad that I couldn't get my little expansion of Stan's mindscape into the main piece. 
> 
> I do like how I was able to describe what America's experiencing. He can see all the structures and things Stan can but there's so much more going on.

Once their feet were back on solid ground, Stan groaned, flapping a hand at America as he eased himself down to sit on the wooden steps leading up to the Mystery Shack. “I gotta take five,” the older looking man grunted once he was finally seated. “Heights ain’t so bad anymore but poking around up there in the sky? Not my idea of a good time.”

“Mm, no problem,” America agreed. Dropping down next to his citizen, America let his legs dangle off the side of the Shack’s porch as his eyes wandered across the foggy gray woods that surrounded them.

The work of restoring Stan’s memories was going-- surprising well. The world around the Shack seemed deceptively small but the plank and pole standing next to the building with guide arrows hinted at destinations beyond the trees. Spaces that held the memories of Stan’s varied past personas.

The memories of Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz floated in the sky above them, casting an eternal light over the mindscape in much the same way the months living as 8-Ball had taught Stan most of the criminal skills he’d used to survive.

Meanwhile, the small apartment unit that contained Steve Pineington sullenly crouched in a neglected clearing a ways from the shack. Stan had moved on from the failure of the Rip Off bandage and the mob of angry customers but there was no avoiding how this event had led him to more try his hand at more dangerous ways to make a living.

They’d prowled through all the clearings and hidey-holes, slowly rebuilding the many alternatives lives Stan had dipped his toes into. As painful as the work was, however, for the first time since Weirdmaggeddon, Stan had at least an inkling of how he’d survived being homeless for over ten years.

At each location, Stan instinctively directed America to the holes in the structures that represented his different guises. And at each and every battered and worn structure, sometimes damaged by fire or ridden with bullets, America reached out and filled in the gaps, drawing on the echo of the life of Stanley Delilah Pines living deep within him. He was the United States of America, after all, and the life of each and every one of his citizens was as much a part of him as his own.

And now, the foundation and structure of Stan’s life had been restored. They would delve deep into the Shack next to continue the repair work, focusing on more day-to-day moments, the minutia of everyday life. With each memory they restored, others came with it, tugged along by the complex spiderweb that linked one moment to another through scent or sound or similarity.

While he waited for Stan to indicate he was ready to head inside, America let his gaze sweep the surrounding area -- and deep beyond the surface of the mindscape.

Past the black and gray woods, below the ground, and deep into the core of what made up  _ Stan _ . America wasn’t human and the metaphorical surroundings that allowed Stan, Ford, and other mortal beings to interact with and understand their own mind were merely one part of what he could see. Instead, he saw--

_ Toddlers/children/teenagers being carried/racing/strutting down a sunny boardwalk-- _

_ Stan and Ford swinging back and forth on the swings, over and over, day after day, year and after, all at the same time-- _

_ “Night, Ford.” “Night Stan.” the words whispered countless times in countless places over and over and over again, hearts and minds swelling with love and bitterness and longing and anger and habit and yearning-- _

_ Stray thoughts, impulses never acted upon-- _

_ Stan’s entire life opened up before America and as his eyes moved he could focus on different moments or feelings. Follow a thread of action-reaction then see a connection to something entirely different, linked by the smell of cotton candy or motor oil. _

_ In the mind, there was nothing of Stan hidden from America. If he relaxed, for even a moment-- _

_ \--the feeling of sweaty linen and leather gloves surrounded his hands as he beat on a punching bag in a New Jersey boxing gym. _

_ \--he was frantically sprinting through narrow city streets while an enraged gang gave chase for daring to work a job in their territory. _

_ \--family surrounded him, laughing and loving, as they fished in the small rickety wooden boat he’d gotten his hands on before the summer started. _

_ If he relaxed, America became Stan. But unlike Stan, he could see and feel every nook and cranny in his mind. Nothing was hidden, nothing went unnoticed. _

_ America’s gaze-- not eyes, not the ones Stan would look into-- bore through Stan’s mind, passing unnoticed as it prowled delicately, carefully through memories, hopes and fears, dreams. Watching, searching for any hint of something that didn’t belong. Of someone, someTHING, that didn’t belong. _

_ The swell of protectiveness that filled America hadn’t diminished in the slightest, probably never would. His Stanley had been hurt, badly, deeply, by the alien invader. He wasn’t going to let it hurt him again. NEVER again. _

“Hey.”

A hand touched America’s shoulder and his head snapped around, eyes blinking as his mind swam back up, leaving behind the inner workings of the mind and returning to his metaphorical surroundings.

Stan was standing, or rather, had stood and was stooped over, hand outstretched to get America’s attention. “Err, I’m ready if you are,” Stan continued once America’s gaze had sharpened once more. Hesitating slightly, uncertain what was going on with the Nation still sitting on the porch, he continued: “If you want to rest a little longer, we can.”

“Oh!” America laughed, then reached up to give the gnarled hand a friendly pat. “Nah, no worries man. I was a thousand miles away but I am totally ready to go!”


	10. Deleted Scene -- Shack Repairs Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted Scene - Shack Repairs Opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had a COMPLETELY different opening to the story. I wrote the whole thing, stared at it, left a note at the end that read "Chapter not complete?" and finally scrapped it a day later.
> 
> I liked a lot of the ideas here but I didn't feel like I'd really nailed ANYONE's voice and the opening was just too slow. This was going to be a crossover story, after all, and I didn't want to WAIT a long time to get to that.
> 
> So I shoved all this to the end of the document and started over with the actual story start you see now. And I'm really happy with that.
> 
> Fun thing, if you read this close enough, you can see how, especially with Ford, I changed some ideas for the new story intro and what ended up following. For example, in this version, Ford is already worrying about Bill managing to survive the memory gun. In the actual story, he's been too worried about Stan to really consider that.

Drilling. Hammering. Sawing. Voices shouting, laughing, arguing. Hovering protectively in the doorway to the kitchen, Ford clutched tight at his elbows, arms folded behind his back, working to keep himself from lashing out at the throng of weird and mundane creatures running all over the Shack, each armed with hammers, drills, saws, and other potentially deadly weapons.

"Grunkle Ford, when you're done deciding whether or not to start shooting people, could you hand me the paper plates?" These was a brief pause. "And if you are going to start a shootout, could you get the plates down first?"

He managed not to jump. It was a small victory, but still a victory nonetheless.

"I'm not going to shoot anyone," Ford responded in a stiff voice, forcing himself to turn and walk away from the doorway, fetching down the stack of paper plates from their high shelf.

"That's great!" Mabel replied with a beaming smile, a hint of glitter reflecting off her braces. Gesturing for him to bring the plates over, she started scraping the scrambled eggs onto the plates.

More eggs. Suppressing a sigh, Ford dutifully started swapping plates for his grand-niece as she portioned out lunch. The town was running low on supplies but the chickens and chicken-like creatures of Gravity Falls had gone back to laying eggs as though Weirdmageddon had never happened.

They were all getting sick of eggs.

"I can't believe I'm saying this but I going to miss Darrell," Mabel suddenly commented in a wistful voice.

"Who?"

"Darrell! He was my favorite mold spot up in the attic!"

Ford could only shake his head in bemusement. Of course Mabel had named the mold spots. She was, without question, the most positive, optimistic person he'd ever met in all the multiverse.

Still, there was some good coming out of the near total destruction of the Shack. The worst of Stanley's housekeeping had been done away with-

He froze. A wave of guilt swept through the scientist. Done away with. How could he even think those words in the some thought as his brother? After everything Stanley had sacrificed to correct _his_ mistakes…

It was his fault, all of it. Bill, the portal, Stanley destroying his own life in a misguided effort to save him. The rift. The children being exposed to mold.

"Are we going to eat soon? I'm starving?" a new voice suddenly interjected.

Mabel turned and gave her brother a small wave.

Ford, however, didn't react.

"Sure! Can you help me carry everything down?" Mabel asked gesturing towards the loaded plates. "Grunkle Ford is wallowing in guilt again. Could be a while before he snaps out of it."

Peering up at the Author, Dipper gave him a quick evaluation, noting the slight detachment in Ford's eyes, the guilt on his face, and the way he was clutching the stack of unused paper plates with white knuckled hands.

"Yeah, this looks like it's going to be a long one," he agreed. Reaching into his vest, Dipper drew out a pen and scrambled up onto the card table near the stove, carefully avoiding the plates scattered on one end. "We'll leave him a note," he commented, leaning forward and quickly scribbling a few words down. Once the message was complete, he nodded in satisfaction and jumped down off the table.

"We're taking Great Uncle Ford's plate with us this time," Mabel declared as the twins gathered up lunch. A fierce light appeared in her eyes, one Dipper knew from experience meant Stanford Pines had just become her next Project. "I used the last of all our food making this! He'll either have to eat with us or starve!"

"Or he could go hunting."

"Dipper!"

As the twins made their way towards the basement where they'd been keeping out of the way of the reconstruction crew, Dipper continued. "Well, I imagine he probably had to do some hunting while he was exploring the multiverse. I mean, there are probably a lot of places where it was harder to find food."

"Yeah, well, he's not going to go hunting because that would take him away from Grunkle Stan." With the discussion settled (in her mind), Mable shifted one of the plates to the crook of her other arm and punched in the code to the basement.

The Pines family had spent the first night after Weirdmageddon camping in the Shack's living room. Stan had slept in his armchair while Soos had found and relocated several mattresses for the other Pines to sleep on. The next morning, however, they found Ford finishing work repairing the hidden entrance to the basement, the space they'd left for him on the ground cold and untouched.

He'd jerked in surprise when the younger twins had found him in the gift shop, an overly bright smile crossing his face as he tried to pretend he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep that night. "Ah, good morning," he greet them, pushing himself (swaying and staggering slightly) up off the floor. "I just wanted to make sure the basement was secure. I know most of the people of this town have their own homes to repair but there are experiments and pieces of equipment down there that could be dangerous."

"What a great idea!" Mabel proclaimed, jumping in without leaving any opening for Dipper. "You're so thoughtful! And since you've work all night, I think you're earned yourself a nap!" She paused, turning slightly towards the living room and put a hand to her ear, gasping. "I can hear the mattress! It's calling you! _Foooord, come take a naaaap_. You have to go nap!"

"Oh, well, I thought I'd sit with Stanley-" Ford started.

With narrowed eyes, Mabel reached forward and grabbed Ford's trenchcoat, determinedly trying to pull him towards the living room. "He's still sleeping. And you should be too!"

Before Mabel could make much progress, however, there was a knock on the door to the gift shop. Turning, the twins and Ford watched as Soos poked his head through the broken door, a wide grin on his face. "Hey, dudes," he beamed. Withdrawing, he straightened and opened the door properly, stepping through to join them. "Great news! Seeing how all you Pines saved Gravity Falls from Bill, Mayor Cutebiker declared that the Mystery Shack would be the first place that got fixed. So everyone's comin' over!"

True to Soos's words, a small crowd was gathering in the grass field Stan used as a parking lot. Manly Dan was roaring orders to the other lumberjacks about how they were going to go about fixing the Shack while Wendy directed traffic.

"They can't be here," Ford exclaimed in dismay, worry etching new lines across his face. "Stanley's mind is still fragile. All those people, construction work - the stress alone could significantly hamper his recovery."

Rubbing his chin, Dipper watched as several large trucks, laden with construction equipment and building supplies, appeared on the road. "Hey!" he suddenly exclaimed, snapping his fingers in excitement. "What about the basement? I mean, it's kind of creepy but Grunkle Stan did spend thirty years down there. It could be familiar enough to help with his memories. And it'd get him away from all the reconstruction."

"Is there a space down there that isn't the creepy portal room?" Mabel asked, looking up at Ford with some anxiety.

"Yes, my private parlor should work fine. I don't think Stanley's ever been in it but the ambiance is, er, similar. Although, there are somethings I should put away first ..."

Dipper made a face, suddenly remembering the tapestries, glass pyramids, and sketches of Bill that littered the parlor. "I'll help you clear that stuff out," he offered. "We can stick it all on the lowest level for now. And while we're doing that, Mabel and Soos can move all our stuff."

For once, a Pines family plan went off without a hitch. Soos and Ford shifted the mattress and a few larger pieces down while Dipper and Mabel gathered up all the private belongs they could find, staging them outside the secret entrance for the others to move.

After everything and everyone had been moved, the reconstruction of the Shack began. While Soos and Wendy guided the repair work, the two sets of Pines twins relaxed in the study, going through scrapbooks, photographs, and sharing stories with Stan.

It works. Mostly.

The niblings, of course, come easiest to him, in part because of how _thoroughly_ Mabel has documented their summer but primarily because of how _much_ they mean to him.

Glass Shard Beach, Pines Pawn Shop, and Ma's psychic hotline are the next memories to return, in part inspired by the old home movies Ford had kept tucked away in the back of his desk. The old reel-to-reel tapes, smelling faintly of vinegar, click and rattle as the film flies through the projector late into the night. And as the soundless films play, Ford quietly recounts the challenges and adventures that made up their childhood.

By the time the next day has rolled around, as the reconstruction overhead begins to wind down, Stan's memory has made an inspiring recovery. And as much as Ford is relieved and happy and thankful that Stanley won't be forced to forever pay for his mistakes, a small, nasty voice inside him whispers about _holes_ and _gaps_ and _Bill_.

A silent war soon breaks out within the Author, one part begging him to just be thankful that he hasn't lost Stanley the way he thought he had while the other whispers on and on about how _convenient_ his twin's recovery is.

Finally, the war threatening to explode out into the open, Ford made a quiet, hurried excuse to Stan and Dipper as they work through the scrapbook again, and fled the study.


	11. Deleted Scene -- America Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got talked into uploading the final deleted scene, so everyone say "Thank You" to Silvea_Sea! This ending IS canon. I ultimately decided against posting it because I wasn't sure I liked the tone it set for the end of the story. But, I've been told it helps complete the story, so here it is. I hope you enjoy.

As the town of Gravity Falls faded from view, America let out a soft sigh and wriggled slightly in his carseat, settling in for several long hours of non-stop driving. He hated leaving. Hated that once he was back in DC it would be politics and policy and angry, frightened states yelling at him for vanishing the way he had.

But he didn’t have a choice. That was just the way things were. He was a Nation and if he wasn’t in Washington or working with the government his people had chosen… well, what would be the point of it all?

In many ways, he envied Stan and Ford. They were preparing to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, bound only by the bonds they chose and the rules they set.

They had a freedom he could only dream about.

And risk, he had to admit. They were old now, by human standards. Still strong but less resilient. Less capable of bouncing back from injury, stress, or strain. And after everything they’d been through over their lives, they probably had even less time than others. Or perhaps more. Humans were interesting that way.

Still.

He wanted to stay in Gravity Falls. Even if it was just for a few weeks or a few months. A century ago he could have gotten away with it but the downside to the Information Age was how much harder it was to take personal time that way.

Stan and Ford-- they still had a number of issues to work through, both personal ones and the decades of pain that had kept them separated for so long. They were riding an emotional high right now. Rejoicing at Bill’s defeat, reveling on being at peace with each other for the first time since they were in high school, taking comfort in the enduring affection Mabel and Dipper held for them.

That high wouldn’t last. America hoped it was just level out but suspected it would be a far more dramatic crash. That was the Pines way, after all.

As he sped down the interstate, America’s mind turned over the pains each twin was hiding.

There was Stan, still suffering from the weight of being cast out, unwanted and unloved by family who should have stood by him through everything, no matter how bad. The pain of endless self-flagellation, of a deep-seated belief that he deserved to suffer, to make up for Ford’s lost opportunity. Stan had spent most of his life thinking himself a burden or worse, a destroyer of hopes and dreams. Forty years of self-ridicule and loneliness twisting and tearing at him, the dark emotions seeking endlessly to rip him to pieces. And all of that on top of a life scrambling and scavenging for food and medical care, for warmth and cleanliness and comfort. Stan was worn out, physically, mentally, and emotionally and so unused to having  _ anyone _ want to take care of him that someone trying to do so would be a profound, unsettling shock.

Ford, by contrast, might have faced greater danger while traveling the multiverse but he’d also had opportunities for higher quality care. As a result, he was physically healthier or would be again once he’d healed from Bill’s torture. The things he’d seen and done, however, were a terrible weight. His mind had been mercilessly battered by a malicious, sadistic foe and the years spent in involuntary exile had forced his psyche to change, to remap neural pathways and form new connections just so he could process the myriad different worlds and beings without completely breaking in the process. And now he was home, back in his original dimension and more lost than he even realized. He hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet and been shocked by inflation. There’d been no trips to the hardware or computer store to search for components common in other dimension but not yet invented here. Everything appearing to be  _ almost _ right,  _ almost _ what he remembered,  _ almost  _ like what he’d lived for the last thirty years but just off enough to put him in fear for his own mind.

Both twins carried the scars of a harsh and unyielding childhood. They’d clung together for years, certain only that their other half truly cared and loved them. Their mother  _ had _ loved them but her own self-doubt and anxiety spilled out in a knotted web of lies and half-truths that made accepting anything from her a double-edged sword. And while their father did care for them, his temper, his struggle with his own emotions and the lingering pains (physical and mental) of war and the worry and stress of raising a family -- it all lashed out in angry shouts, low snarls, swinging fists, and violent outbursts. Too proud to apologize, too broken to realize how much damage he was causing.

It had all been a perfect storm to fester unhealthy bonds and an inability to communicate so bad that the final eruption had shattered the entire family.

Stan hadn’t meant to break Ford’s experiment and perhaps he didn’t. But it broke and he couldn’t bring himself to even mention the possibility, not with the fear of being left behind, the unwanted “stupid twin”.

Ford had been fully justified at being angry at Stan for the accident and the failure to warn him of the potential damage. But the interruption of their father prevented that anger from being dealt with and instead it sat unresolved for years and years until it warped into something bigger and nastier.

Stan hadn’t deserved to be cast as the “stupid twin”. It had prevented him from forming any other kind of personal identity and ignored that he was every bit as smart as Ford -- just in different ways, with different strengths.

The future outcome of the entire family sure as  _ hell _ shouldn’t have been placed on Ford’s shoulders. It was a miracle he’d managed to shake that, to fix his eyes on the chance to do his own research and find a place where, for the first time in his life, he felt he belonged.

No, the twins were hurting in ways they didn’t even realize. America knew it, saw it, felt it. Worried about what would happen as it started coming out.

With another heavy sigh, America groped at the console of his bugout car, digging for the small pad and pencil he kept there even as he continued to steer the racing vehicle. With luck, he might be able to convince California to offer them some kind of therapy. And the twins that this was a normal requirement for physicals.

His Stan and Ford were happy right now. And there was nothing America wanted more than for them to stay that way. And for once, he was actually in a position where he could do something about it.


End file.
